


Hart of the Storm

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings in Author’s Note, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Animal Transformation, Alternate Universe - Historical, Astronomer Castiel, Case Fic, Castiel’s True Form, Cervitaur Dean, Community: deancasbigbang, Deer, Deer Dean, Dragon Castiel, Dream Meanings, Elemental Magic, Epic, Fantasy, Female Characters of Color, Food, Forests, God Castiel, Hunter Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Outer Space, POV Alternating, Portals, Romance, Shapeshifter Castiel, Slow Build, Smart Dean, Storms, Trickster Gabriel, Vegetarians & Vegans, Witch Castiel, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 119,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical AU. One by one, people disappear into the forest. A hunter named Dean is employed to bring them back, and eliminate the danger while he’s at it. His search leads him to Castiel, the forest’s resident deity: a shapeshifting stag, glowing with all the power of a thunderstorm. Thinking Castiel is the monster he’s been sent to kill, Dean falls prey to the forest’s magical defence and is transformed into a deer. Castiel commits to caring for him while he recovers – and Dean lets it happen, holding onto hope that Cas can make him human again. Meanwhile, other people embark on their own quests to save friends and family: Missouri, Dean’s surrogate mother; the young Native American schoolteacher, Elsie; Dean’s own brother, Sam, alongside Charlie, Elsie’s lady love. Like the others, they vanish without a trace amongst the trees. What is taking them? And will they ever come back out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Hills Outpost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Dean/Cas Big Bang 2014](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Check out the **art masterpost** by [steviecass](http://steviecass.tumblr.com/) [here](http://steviecass.livejournal.com/2631.html)!
> 
> See my **acknowledgements** for everyone who helped me with this story [here](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/26734.html) (scroll down).
> 
>  **Warnings:** This story is set in 1890, and includes period-typical racism, but I have tried my utmost to make the narrative POC-positive. Beware scenes depicting fire, violence, abduction and unlawful imprisonment, panic attacks, and the killing of animals for food. Past child abuse (John Winchester with Dean), internalised homo/biphobia (Sam, about Dean). Body horror (transforming between species). Also includes swearing, blasphemy, tobacco-smoking, a lot of food-eating (perhaps bordering on light fetishism), and one very minor character death. Possibly some second-hand embarrassment, as well as historical inaccuracies. Ambiguous switch/bottom!Dean (non-penetrative). Contains spoilers for Oscar Wilde’s _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1890), a quote from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s _A Vindication of Natural Diet_ (1813), and British spelling. Any views or opinions expressed in this story are not necessarily the views or opinions of the author.
> 
>      **hart** (hɑːt)  
>       _n, pl_ harts _or_ hart  
>       **1.** _(animals)_ the male of the deer, especially the red deer, aged five years or more.

The train hit another kink in the track, and the jolt of the carriage caused Dean Winchester to lose his grip on the magazine he’d been holding. He retrieved it from the dusty floor and straightened up, adjusting his ankle over his knee once more. Looking cautiously up at the other passengers, he saw they were uninterested in his magazine, and he lowered his eyes to the page.

_I turned half-way round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious instinct of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself._

Dean had read that same passage a hundred times over these past few weeks. The magazine had grown dog-eared and thoroughly stained by the dirt in Dean’s bag, and he still wondered if he ought to do something to protect the thick collection of pages.

The publication was never one he’d intended to love, nor even appreciate the smallest amount. He’d picked it up at a train station, wanting something to pass the time while he journeyed from New York to wherever he had been going at the time. Once he read the magazine, however, he had found himself lost in its looking-glass view of the world and fallen into obsession. These pages reflected on things for Dean, _about_ Dean, a number of which had never left the inside of his head. He adored this story with all the force and passion he usually put into his work – and with his work being what it was, it was all the more reason to keep his mouth shut and the magazine averted from everyone else’s view.

Today, his train was bound for the Black Hills of South Dakota, where he had been summoned for a job. By coincidence, he was headed for the same outpost in which he’d grown up, and there was a weighty anticipation in his gut which remained like a rock in a glass tank, still and sturdy, even after so many hours being tossed about by the absolute newness of the train tracks. He looked forward to visiting the place which had once been his home.

Dean was the only passenger left in his carriage compartment by the time the train pulled into the outpost. The clouded sun had become murky through the windows as the day neared its end, and Dean could already smell the oxen. He stowed his magazine in his bag, careful not to let his knives scratch the paper.

He shouldered his bag, and then his shotgun strap, as the gun was too long to fit in the bag. He stepped into the hallway just as the train came to a halt; the entire row of cars bumped together, and Dean stumbled, catching his weight against the glass window. He stood straight, chuckling at the handprint he had left on the glass. His vision skipped from the glass to the station outside, and his smile fell.

An important-looking man in a black bowler hat and tails stood on the station floor, both his pale hands clasped to the curve of a walking cane. Beside him was a native woman wearing a somewhat fashionable ankle-length grey dress, tight at the waist and tall at the shoulder. She had much the same expression of seriousness as the man. Nobody else waited at the station; they were both there for Dean.

Dean sighed and lugged his bag over his shoulder again, grunting when the weapons swung and hit his lower back. He trudged to the carriage door, but before he could open it, the train conductor did it for him.

“Black Hills Outpost,” the conductor announced blandly, sounding as tired as Dean felt.

“Thanks,” Dean said to him as he stepped down onto the platform.

“Have a good evening, sir,” the conductor said, tipping his flat hat, moustache twitching as he put on a smile.

“You too.” Dean wandered past, looking up at the stone-faced pair as they approached him.

“Mr. Winchester,” the man in a suit said, taking off his bowler hat and tucking it under his arm as he reached out a hand to greet Dean. “My name is Trevor Horace, vice-president of Black Hills... Trade.”

Dean let go of Mr. Horace’s hand before Horace was done shaking. “Ah,” Dean said, feeling his teeth try to clench. “I see your company renamed itself since I was here last. Smart move.”

Horace lifted his grey eyebrows, showing the wrinkles around his eyes. “Yes. We had some, shall I say, difficulty.”

“Well, I should think so,” Dean said, not doing much to conceal his ire. “Slavery’s been illegal for twenty-five years – practically my whole _life_. ‘Bout time you matched pace with the rest of the world.”

Horace shuffled backwards, and his tone turned from informative to reproachful. “Mr. Winchester, ever since the end of the gold rush, Black Hills never kept up with societal fashion. I believe that _was_ part of the reason you left, was it not? You youngsters, you want the latest and greatest, and Black Hills has never been anything of the sort.”

Dean’s cold smile stayed fixed in place as his eyes moved off Horace and towards the woman who remained in the background, saying nothing, not moving at all, hands clasped neatly in front of her waist. Her eyes locked to Dean’s as he looked at her. She seemed to be the same age as him.

Dean gave her a smile.

His eyes then darted back to Horace, and he brushed past him with a dismissive pat to his arm. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Horace, I’m not as drawn to the latest and greatest as you might imagine.” He walked alongside the woman now; she left the small platform and led Dean down the stairs at the side. “But I do take pride in knowing I never thought putting an end to slavery was... ha! – how did you put it? Societal fashion. Then again... I’m not part of your generation, Mr. Horace. I hear you older folks have a harder time keeping your moral sensibilities clear-cut black and white.” Dean lifted his eyes, tilting his head. “So to speak.”

The woman gestured towards a horse and cart that was waiting for them behind the station, its driver standing in the gritty road. Dean sighed, and waited for the woman to approach the cart first. He longed for the day automobiles would drive alongside horse-drawn carts. All the inventors in the world were inventing far too slowly for his liking.

Dean offered the woman a hand to help her balance. She didn’t smile in thanks, but accepted his hand and lifted the corner of her dress so she wouldn’t trip as she climbed up. Dean stood back again and offered the second space in the cart to Horace, smirking at him. “You too, sir. But the helping hand is just for the ladies.”

Horace strode past and lifted himself into the cart with the grunt of an old, angry man. Dean saw the irritation in the man’s eyes and felt rather pleased with himself. He then threw his bag over the side of the cart, and followed it up with a jaunty swing of his weight. He landed in the leather seat and shut the cart’s small door behind him, grinning at the woman. She stared at him with understandable interest, but the moment Dean winked at her, she gave a harrumph of distaste and looked away.

While the driver readied the horse, Dean took a deep breath and peered at his surroundings, slouching back against the cartside with his arms spread. The town was the same as Dean had left it; caravans of oxen were being batted from one end of the long road to the other, dust hung above the ground the way morning mist ghosted over a river, and the smell of manure mixed obtrusively with the smoky tang of burning pine. Sound carried in the cooling air: Dean heard the echoing _tink-tink-tink_ of a blacksmith doing his work, and the distant clatter of outside conversation.

Dean shut his eyes, and yes... he could hear the forest, its whispers. Even deaf men heard those whispers.

He opened his eyes, and smiled when the first thing he saw was the woman’s curious gaze set on him. She didn’t look away this time, so Dean leant forward over his thighs and asked her gently, “What do they call you?”

The woman’s eyes darted to Horace, but Horace had gone sour and stared pointedly away from both Dean and their companion. The woman returned her gaze to Dean’s, and in that well-practiced Lakota accent Dean was used to hearing, she said, “Elsie.”

“What’s the rest?” Dean urged, nodding once, twice. “What do they call you when you’re not Miss Elsie? Elsie Swimming Fish? Elsie Shining Star?”

Miss Elsie burst out laughing, then covered her mouth shyly with her hand, eyes now wide and shocked. Dean kept on grinning at her, waiting for her to speak.

Miss Elsie lowered her eyes, then her hand, then raised her eyes once more. “Calling Goat,” she said. “Elsie Calling Goat.”

Dean smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

Elsie Calling Goat smiled ever so slightly, looking away again before Dean could flatter her too much. Her hand swept down her black plait, stroking it against her shoulder.

Dean leaned back again, shifting in his seat as the cart finally began to move, trundling forward. Dean was travelling with his back to their destination. They bumped and tumbled along the road, no doubt rolling through plenty of manure but not much solid ground.

“So,” Dean said, to either Horace or Miss Elsie, whichever of them cared to listen, “where are we going?”

“The town hall,” Miss Elsie said. Her eyes darted to Horace as she spoke. His mouth was open: he’d been about to answer too. Miss Elsie realised she’d cut him off, and her eyes turned down in shame while Horace puffed himself up like an adder.

When Horace spoke, it was without interest, eyes rising aversively. “It has recently come to our attention that there are... certain... myths, arising amongst the townfolk―”

“They are not myths!” Miss Elsie cried. Dean’s eyes widened as he saw her fearsome expression, a sharp glare and flared nostrils. She had swivelled on her seat to look Horace in the eye; Horace was as startled as Dean to see her snap. “The stories are true, the monster took my sister!”

“Sister!” Horace spat with unwholesome relish. “That child was just as much a blight on this town’s history as you, _Miss Calling Goat_. And I only hope that ‘monster’ takes you as well! At least then we would have _proof_ these aren’t more of those fanciful redskin tales you’re so insistent on telling the children!”

“Whoa,” Dean said, raising his open hands in Horace’s direction, shaking his head, making them both quiet down before Miss Elsie could bite the old man’s head off. “Let’s keep this civilised, shall we? None of those – _words_ , all right?” Dean looked directly at Horace, hoping he knew exactly which word he meant, and Dean wouldn’t have to repeat it. “Whatever it is that’s going on, it’s probably got the whole town on edge. Am I right?” Dean looked to Miss Elsie for his answer, not Horace.

Miss Elsie nodded after a moment. “The children at the school won’t go outside to play any more.”

Dean lowered his hands to his knees, swallowing. He looked out beyond the cart, watching more of those wooden saloon buildings go past, a few inside lights starting to come on now that the daylight was almost absent. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Dean said, almost without thought. “I chase away shadows for a living, Miss Elsie.” He turned his head and gave her a smile. “I’ll do everything I can to find your sister and bring her home.”

Miss Elsie shut her eyes and nodded once, deeply relieved.

The cart pulled up against a white stone building, the only stone building in the entire town. Dean hopped out first, heavy bag and his shotgun over his shoulder. He held his hand out for Miss Elsie, helping her down. He then escorted her to the front of the town hall, not bothering to look back at Mr. Horace.

“Is there going to be a lot of waiting around?” Dean asked, as a jowly butler opened the front door, which clunked open with a humongous echo bouncing back across the marble interior. Dean licked his lips and swallowed, stepping inside the town hall for only the second time in his life. “I really hope this won’t take long. Because I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“No, it won’t take long,” Miss Elsie said. She didn’t look over at Dean, but she offered her arm for him to take, and take it he did. She led him to a second big door, where a second butler prepared to let them inside. “Everyone is already here.”

The door opened, and Dean’s mouth dropped open. A congregation of perhaps a hundred people waited in the hall, chattering loudly, most of them seated on wooden chairs lined up in two sections, either side of a central aisle. The sound of their voices echoed from marble pillar to marble pillar, and the tobacco smoke above their heads drifted suddenly, moving in the current of the open door. Dean tried to turn back – he saw Mr. Horace stepping into the hall, red in the face and quite tense – but then the door creaked to a close, and Dean felt the thump of it through the soles of his shoes as it trapped him inside.

A pair of hands began to clap slowly at the front of the hall: another grey-haired white man stood up on a semi-permanent stage. The clapping brought the hall to attention, and the chatter died down. A chair or two screeched against the floor as people readied themselves to listen.

The man at the front nodded in greeting to everyone present, and wasted no time at all before raising a hand, and gesturing broadly to the crowd. “The citizens of Black Hills Outpost would like to welcome you, sir.”

Dean blinked, but it was only when Elsie’s arm slipped out from his own, and he looked at her and saw she was looking at _him_ , that he realised everyone else was looking at him too.

Dean swallowed hard and tried to speak. “Uh― Hello. Citizens.”

The speaker at the front tipped his face forwards, looking at Dean over his spectacles. “I am Mayor Donald Bradley; I’m in charge here. Please, come up to the front! How would you prefer we address you, sir?”

Dean gaped for a moment, then adjusted the weight of his bag and stepped into the central aisle, walking forwards. “Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“And, for those of us who don’t already know, what do you do for a living, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean’s throat had gone dry, all the heat of his body was in his face, and his hands were numb. “I h― I hunt monsters.”

So many eyes. So many eyes watched him walk up on that stage, put down his bag and gun on the floor, then reach out his grubby hand to the mayor. The mayor took his hand and shook it, touching his left palm to the top of Dean’s hand, still shaking warmly. Dean was trembling.

“How long have you been hunting monsters, son?”

Dean let out a breath all at once as their hands separated. He looked into the mayor’s eyes and saw a genuine desire to know. “Uh, about... about ten years. Yeah. Ten years. Since I was sixteen.”

A rumble of conversation passed through the assembly, and Dean’s eyes flicked over them. What were they talking about? Did they think he was too young to do this?

“I knew your father,” the mayor said. Dean’s attention fixed on the mayor and nothing else mattered. “He would pass by here, on his way from job to job.”

Dean nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, he would come see us.” Dean looked to the crowd, speaking up for their benefit. “Me and my brother were raised here. Looked after by a woman― Actually, she might be here this evening. Ms. Moseley?”

A general reply came from several points in the crowd – friendly faces he hadn’t seen for years – and Dean smiled as he learned that even though Ms. Missouri Moseley was not present tonight, she still lived in the town. Dean nodded to himself, feeling braver.

“Good, excellent,” the mayor said, shaking his head and wandering away, patting his hands on the belly of his silk waistcoat. “Now, to business, I think.” He turned back after a moment, eyes boring into Dean. “Mr. Winchester, the problem is thus:... We have a monster on the loose.”

The crowd erupted in a mixture of hysterical titters and wails of fear. The mayor quieted everyone down with a wave, and when only murmurs remained, he spoke: “People have been taken, that is the fact of it! We don’t know what is stealing away our family, our friends, but it is... _something_. We can no longer ignore what is happening!”

The crowd burst into a cacophony of vocal additions once again, and Dean quickly observed their collected faces, recognising a handful of people. He saw both men and women of varying ethnicities: black, white, native. Young and old. He had never known the town to be so diverse when converging their efforts on any single issue, and it led him to realise that whatever was abducting the people of this town, it had no obvious preference for its victims. It was not human, therefore. In Dean’s experience there was nobody in the world who truly had no preference for the colour of a person’s skin – even himself; if someone of every shade was taken, then the creature was either blind, or desired only what existed _inside_ the soft casing. Flesh. Souls. A beating heart. It could be anything.

“Please, please!” The mayor waved his hands down, battling the crowd back into their seats by sheer force of will. “Silence! There can be no helping your families if the hunter doesn’t know what to look for!”

“A deer!” came a bold shout from the back. “It looks like a deer!”

Clamours of agreement came from other seats, people standing up and bellowing their own thoughts, only for their words to be lost to the acoustics of the room and the cries of other people.

Dean supposed it could be a shapeshifter. He hadn’t known one to choose animal form before, but it was certainly possible...

The crowd was forced silent again, and the mayor turned to Dean once again, sweat beading on his pale forehead. “We have a great dilemma here, you see. More than a tenth of our population has been taken – and we are not a large town, Mr. Winchester. Our woodsmen, our children, they are no longer with us. We rely on this forest for life, sir. Business in trade is all well and good, but I humble myself when I say: all our livelihoods here depend on the _wood_ our men harvest. And as you well know... winter is at our doorsteps. Already the days grow shorter, the nights get darker and colder by each turn of the sun. We will freeze without firewood, and we will grow poor if we must buy our wood from elsewhere. What a shame it is, what can we ever tell outsiders? We cannot harvest our own forest, as our forest is – haunted. We are living in _shame_. Our choices dwindle to nothing, like our hearths. Do we stay and mourn those who may already be lost, or do we leave this town behind, and never know what happened to them? We desire more than answers, Mr. Winchester. We want our forest back. We want our home back. And most dearly... we want our _people_ back.” He looked pleadingly at Dean, and asked, “Can you help us?”

Dean licked his lips and watched the crowd the crowd watching him, and he felt his throat tightening. “It... it depends. Look – how many people, how many have been taken?”

“People have been disappearing since mid-summer,” the mayor replied, with heavy defeat. “Anyone who goes into the forest doesn’t come back out.”

“How many?” Dean repeated.

“Twenty-eight lost souls.”

Dean’s eyes widened, taken aback, and he looked at the assembled masses to see if he’d simply misheard. But none of their faces showed disagreement, only sorrow. “Why has it taken you so long to find help?”

Uproar began once again – but, surprisingly, this time it came from those with darker skin, most of whom were not in seats, but standing around the edges of the room. Dean held up his hand for quiet, and the crowd obeyed, faster than they had for the mayor. Dean nodded once he had silence, and he gestured towards a black woman seated near the front of the room. She wore a yellow dress of the same florid style as the white women here, but her hair was left uncovered while the white women wore hats or veils. The woman looked behind herself, then realised she was the one meant to talk.

She stood on shaking legs, holding the hand of a black man beside her. He bowed his head as she took a breath to speak. “Our daughter was the third to be taken. Her name is Betty, she is thirteen years old―” The woman’s voice broke under the weight of emotion, and her hand reached to cover her face. She wailed out her next words, looking at Dean in desperation. “Nobody would listen! They believed us but they didn’t care!”

“Here,” came another voice, a native man with long black hair, wearing a black suit. “My brother, he was taken also. Edward Black Running Coyote. He is thirty-two years of age, he was gone in the first week of August. Only now do they listen. Only now, because―”

“Because his son was taken!” A shrill voice joined a number of others, and Dean caught a white woman’s words through the others. “Mayor Bradley’s son was taken and that’s all he cares about!”

Dean looked over at the mayor, who had fallen into a chair and was resting his pale face in his hands, spectacles perched upon his knee. Dean turned back to the crowd, and waved them quiet. It took them some time.

When the room was silent, Dean shut his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hearing his own voice echo back. “I’m sorry your loved ones were taken.” He swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. “From the sound of it, you could be looking at anything from a wendigo to a shapeshifter – but it could be something else, something I’ve never encountered before. I see new things two-a-month, at least. There’s a world of uncharted horrors out there. I’m guessing you know that, you’ve seen a fragment of that world yourselves.

“Listen,” he said, raising his eyes, his attention skipping from one brokenhearted face to another. “I can’t say I know exactly what I’m doing, because I don’t. But I sure do know what to look for, all right? I can’t promise to bring your families back. But I promise to search for them to the very best of my ability.” By chance, his eyes found Miss Elsie’s from across the smoky room. He gave her a courteous nod, holding her gaze. “I promise you. I will do my best. And I will not stop until I have results.”

_Monday, the 14th of September, 1890._

_Hey little brother!_

_I’m in Black Hills! It’s the outpost, not the actual main town – and nowhere exciting, like Deadwood, but it almost feels like home. I haven’t tracked Missouri down yet, I’m hoping I’ll see her before I start the job._

_Oh! THE JOB. They want me to hunt a deer. I suppose it’s a very bloodthirsty deer, it’s taken 28 damn people since June or July, I’m not sure when. The mayor only started paying attention when his own son got taken. Just seeing the ~~angwish~~ anguish on the black women’s faces, and the natives too... it made me feel like I wanted to vomit (and that had nothing to do with the speech I had to give. I did a speech, Sammy!)  
but You know how I freckle up and tan in the sun, and I can’t help it. If I’d been born with a tan like that I might’ve been one of them, losing you and crying about it because nobody would do anything to help me, and nobody would let me rescue you myself. I want to help all those people, I know when they smile it’s the same smile, like what Missouri always said, you remember? We all hurt and love the same. Skin is the paper wrap we came in when we were gifted to the world, and all that beautiful crap._

_Anyway, that’s what I’m doing tomorrow. Hunting deer. Dad would be proud at least. Did I ever tell you about that? He took me out for hunting practice when I was 14, and handed me that shotgun (my favorite one these days! it has deer on it in gold, you stole it once to shoot a ghost) and he told me to shoot this deer, and I couldn’t because it wasn’t killing anyone and it didn’t deserve to die. Dad said “Where do you think your venison comes from?” but I still couldn’t. And he tried to take the gun off me and shoot the deer himself but I wouldn’t let him, I cried out and the deer ran away. Dad hit me with the gun and I was bleeding but that’s why I like the gun, it reminds me about what’s good and what’s bad. Don’t tell him if you see him, but I’m still glad Dad went to hunt on his own. ~~I hated working with him~~ ~~I miss him~~  
It’s better when you and me hunt together._

_The room Miss Elsie put me in is this little wooden corner in the inn Missouri always said was full of bedbugs. So I’m sleeping on the floor tonight! There’s a balcony to outside, though – I’m sitting there now, having a quick cigarette while I write this. This oil lamp smells worse than they usually do, and the light is attracting about 3,000 moths. It’s tempting to set fire to them just to see what happens, but I can’t very well do that after telling you about that deer now, can I?_

_It’s cold here. The Mayor said if all the woodcutters keep getting kidnapped by this magical deer, the whole town is going to have to move away because they can’t heat their homes over winter. I can almost understand. It’s fucking freezing, my hands are shivering (that’s why my cursive is so ugly today). But I don’t understand why they would abandon their missing family in the woods and just leave. I could never do that to you, even if my hands turned to ice and fell off. (Leaving you at Stanford to go hunting is NOT THE SAME THING.)_

_I hope your studies are going fine. Are you bored yet? When you’re bored we can meet up, I want to go and see the Grand Canyon again. In summer this time, last time didn’t count._

_Are you still pining after that girl Jess? Her picture is still really nice, it keeps me company by my bed when there’s nobody else._   
_(I’M JOKING. yours is the only picture keeping me company. The same way Jessica’s picture keeps YOU company...)_   
_(I wish I could see your face. The look of horror... ha ha ha)_

_I’d better finish my letter, the paper’s almost full and I should keep spares for while I’m in the forest. I don’t know how long I’ll be in there, maybe a day, maybe a week. Everyone who goes in never comes out again. I know we’ve heard that before and lived to tell the tale, but having survived previous situations never stops me being scared every time we come up against something new. ...Hopefully I won’t die, that would be inconvenient. If I die, you get the gun and everything else in my possession. (And please don’t tell anyone about the story in my bag. I won’t tell you what it is, you’ll only find out if I die. Don’t go wishing bad things on me now, though.)_

_Wish me luck, Sammy! – Dean_

The very next morning, Dean went down to the post office to post his letter. He pushed open the door, glancing up at the bell as it danced about, disturbed by Dean’s entry. Dean strode onto the worn carpet and let the door close behind him. The room he stood in was stacked along one side with square dividers, some of which had paper inside. On the left there was a big table, where a woman and two men bent at the waist to write.

“Hasn’t changed much, has it,” Dean muttered to himself, smiling as the woman glanced up from her writing.

He went to the front desk and paid the Postmistress fifteen cents for his letter to be sent. He watched it taken into the back room, and he smiled, hoping it would get to Sam safely.

The moment he left the post office, he ran into a large, warm figure. He stepped back in alarm with his hands raised in apology. Then he saw the face of the woman. She smiled at him, and tears filled Dean’s eyes. He darted forwards again to wrap his arms around Missouri’s low shoulders.

“I’m so glad― Momma―”

“You been away too long, boy. Didn’t even write!”

“I know... Oh, I know, I’m sorry.” Dean squeezed her soft form, burying his face into the warmth of her brown shawl. He grinned as she petted his back, one hand grasping the back of his head.

“Get off me now, people will talk,” Missouri said brightly, her airy voice carrying over Dean’s shoulder as he straightened up.

The door to the post office opened, and Dean and Missouri sidestepped out of the way so another man could leave. He gave a tight, bland smile and left down the street, but he looked back over his shoulder more than once. Dean eyed him warily. A white boy like Dean raised by a black woman like Missouri wasn’t uncommon when the black woman was a maid or a nanny, but the people in this town would have heard about the Winchester boys – there had been gossip back then, and there would be gossip now. Missouri had raised Dean and Sam of her own volition, and had done a good job of it, too. Dean liked to think so, at least.

He turned back to Missouri with a huge smile on his face, trying to forget the rest of the world so he could focus on how pleased he was to see her again. Her soft hand caught his stubbled jaw, and Dean shut his eyes for a moment to let her remind herself of his face.

“You grew up too fast,” she said, shaking her head and letting her hand slide away. “You look more like your daddy now than you ever did.”

Dean swallowed and tried to smile, but ended up lowering his face, avoiding Missouri’s eye.

“Hey,” she whispered gently, taking Dean’s chin with her fingers, lifting it so she could see his face properly. “Baby, don’t you fret about your old man. He ain’t gonna bother you no more. You got enough of your mama in you to drive out his anger like she did.”

Dean looked Missouri in the eye and nodded silently, always grateful for her words. She was an expert on knowing how to ease a troubled soul.

Missouri sighed, tugging her shawl closer against her round shape. “How is Sam?”

Dean smiled. “Good. I got a letter from him I picked up while I was in Maine, he’s chasing one special girl and making himself too smart for his own good.”

Missouri made a pleased noise, crinkles appearing around her eyes.

“Me, though,” Dean said, putting his hands into his coat’s leather pockets, “I’m here on business. Hunting.”

Missouri’s expression darkened like storm clouds had just rolled across her inner moors. “That damn monster in our forest.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “I think I’ll be okay, I can go in and deal with what’s there, but those missing people... I’m not optimistic. I can’t be. That many people go missing, the chances of them still being alive are―”

“Don’t you talk to me about it!” Missouri said, waving a quick hand in front of Dean. “You walking into that forest is suicide. I can’t― Baby, I can’t let you. Don’t do this.”

Dean shook his head and pulled Missouri’s hands away from his face when she tried to cradle his cheeks. “Momma, no. I’m not letting fear keep me away. If you lose me in there, at least you’ll know how I went. At least you’ll know you gotta move these people out of this town, lock this place down for good. I’m a good hunter. I have―” He bent his head and reached inside his shirt, pulling out a group of dangling amulets. “I have protection. And maybe the monster only takes Black Hills residents; I don’t live here.” He looked at Missouri sternly when she tried to interrupt. “I have to make this place safe. I was called here on a job and I’m damn well going to _do_ my job.”

Missouri shut her mouth and sighed, her gaze resting fondly on Dean. “I’ve seen that look in your father’s eye too. There’s no stopping you.”

Dean swallowed, pushing the amulet necklaces back against his sternum. “As soon as I’ve got my bag and provisions, I’m going in.”

Missouri’s eyes closed like she didn’t want to deal with the words she’d just heard. When she opened her eyes again, she nodded. “All right,” she said, resting her hand on Dean’s heart. “I’ll pack you some lunch. Don’t you dare go anywhere until I’ve seen you off.”

Dean grinned. “Leave early and miss out on a bag of your sandwiches? I wouldn’t dream of it.”


	2. The Forest Path

When Dean showed up at the loggers’ entrance to the forest, it wasn’t just Missouri standing there with a bag of sandwiches – the turnout seemed to include half the town. Dean crossed the dusty clearing under an overcast sky, hands in fists as good-luck pats rained down on his back. Faces full of hope filled his vision, and his heart ached at the sight. He could never tell these people what he knew about monsters, that monsters weren’t kidnappers, they were killers. These hopeful faces would have nothing to hope for by the time he returned.

... _If_ he returned.

Miss Elsie gave Dean a deep nod, and Dean returned it, feeling like he’d failed her already.

The mayor shook Dean’s hand, and after that, nobody said a word when Dean made sure his final contact was with Missouri. If he would never again see a human face, hers ought to be the last.

They stood only feet from the dark mouth of the forest, the smell of pine sap and autumn meltwater making the air harsh in Dean’s nose. He kept his arms around Missouri for a long time, longer than would ever have been acceptable in any other circumstances.

Dean whispered against Missouri’s shoulder, “If I don’t come back, tell Sam I died quick and painless. And don’t you dare let him come in after me.”

“I will, baby,” Missouri said, letting Dean unfold from her warmth and pick up his bag from the ground. Her eyes were misty, her smile wavering but brave. She touched his head one last time, and Dean drifted from her touch, still holding her gaze.

He stood on the threshold of the forest where dust turned to pine droppings, and he took a long breath, then turned his face away from Missouri’s.

He took a step forward into the forest, shouldered his shotgun, then started to walk.

It got dark all at once, and the sound of the town disappeared like a blanket had been thrown over it. Dean looked back, confused, and his heart pounded as he saw only a wall of leaves where there had a moment ago been daylight. The world, this mouthful of trees, it was now lit with reflected light alone, and Dean tried to assure himself that somewhere above him, there was still a sky.

He picked his way forward, breathing in the smell of the forest. It smelled dense, and damp. The muddy floor squished under his feet; it seemed like it had rained recently.

For a forest of pine, the trees were very close together. So close, in fact, that Dean couldn’t quite see between their overlapping branches. The safest path was obvious, however, so Dean didn’t think to push through the trees on either side.

A set of mushrooms grew in the path, and Dean walked around them. Upon hearing a swish, he looked back, and there were no mushrooms.

He tried not to be scared. It was either a forest of illusion, or something wanted him to get lost. He’d entered thinking there was something terrible within, a single entity, but he supposed now it was the forest itself. People got lost inside and never found their way back out.

He walked on, always surprised to find a single, easy path, whether it bent to the left or right, or rose up or fell in layers of staggered earth. This forest had become a passageway – but to where? And why? To lead him to his doom? Or to lead him somewhere else? Curious to find out, he never left the path.

Dean soon realised there were no birds. Not a tweet or a chirrup sounded, and there were no rustles of leaves as birds hopped from branch to branch. It was as if the birds took flight and left without a warning cry when they heard Dean coming. Dean supposed that meant – if there were any birds in the first place – every bird was alone, and had no other birds to warn about Dean’s presence. That kind of avian behaviour fascinated him as much as it frightened him. It was not how a forest was supposed to be.

It was bizarre. This place was nothing like the forest Dean remembered from his childhood. Something supernatural must have taken up residence here in the summer just gone – that remained the most promising explanation.

After an hour Dean became tired of walking, and he sat down on a grassy bank at the side of the path to open his bag of weapons. He pulled out the brown paper bag Missouri had given him; wincing as it crackled and disturbed the oppressive silence of the woodland. Dean tried to stay quiet as he ate one sandwich. He counted five other sandwiches, and he hoped they would be enough for him. Since he’d last seen mushrooms, he hadn’t seen any more. If there were no animals in the forest to catch, he would starve quickly.

Two more hours went by, and Dean carried on following the path. He only knew the time because he pulled out his pocket watch whenever he saw some distinctive change in his surroundings; overhanging branches, a fallen tree. There was no pattern to these changes; they seemed as random as any normal forest.

Then, there came a sound. The snapping of branches, the shuffling of leaves. It followed him for a full minute, off to the right of the path. Whatever was there, it was real, and it could navigate the forest the same way Dean did. Dean slowed down, loaded his gun as silently as possible, then aimed the barrel at the sound, slowing even more so he could listen.

Then he stopped, because the sound had slowed down too.

Something was looking at him.

Dean raised his shotgun to his right shoulder, wishing there were some light beyond that first line of trees. The path was like a tunnel, and he could see in front and behind, and while it was disturbing enough that the path behind didn’t match what he’d seen when he walked on it, the forest appeared pitch black everywhere else. He saw a gap between two skinny pine trees, and it was nothing but a void. The light grazed the space as if it was draped in black velvet.

Despite his chills, Dean started to sweat. He couldn’t lower his gun now, not now he was aware of a presence.

Whatever was there moved a foot and a stick broke. Dean cocked his gun and fired at the disturbance without a thought. The thunder of the gunshot rebounded like he was in a small space rather than a forest filled with trees to deflect the sound. Dean lowered his gun. Ahead, he saw something which shocked him more than anything else he’d witnessed today.

The black void between the trees was disappearing, fading as if the sun was rising beyond it. And it was; Dean saw sunlight, soft yellow sunlight. Green leaves, grass. The shape of an animal rested on the floor in a mound, and Dean realised his shot had hit its target, even though he’d been shooting blind.

Dean dropped his bag and ran to the creature, breaking from the path. He lay the gun beside the animal, hands weak as he realised it was not the monster he’d come to kill.

This creature was a pronghorn. A deer, a normal deer. Its antlers were spikes: curled inwards, branching off only once. Devil’s antlers. But its face was soft as Dean touched it, and it spasmed at the contact. Its eyes opened, breath rushing into its perforated lungs in ragged, harsh sips. It was not dead, and it was suffering.

“I’m― I’m sorry,” Dean said to it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stood up, fist to his mouth. He could smell the animal’s fur; it was oily, and greenish, like leaves. He turned his face back towards the path, but horror descended over him as he saw the sheen of black had covered the gap again. He was too afraid to walk through it and get his bag. He couldn’t get a knife to make the deer’s death easier. He was left with only his gun.

Dean knelt and picked up his gun from the grass. As he lifted it, warm sunlight glanced off the side of the gun’s magazine, showing up its decoration: three small golden deer.

Dean rested his hand on the pronghorn’s dark nose. “Please forgive me,” he said, voice made throaty by regret. He stood up, aimed the gun at the deer’s head, then shut his eyes and fired.

The explosive sound of the gun ricocheted around the clearing here, but it sounded natural. The sound escaped to the sky, and faded quickly. Dean looked down and saw a burned blood stain on the deer’s head surrounding a mangled wound, skull fragments and brain matter blasted in red strikes across the grass. At close range, the second shot had been even more destructive than the scattered shrapnel that had blasted the animal’s gut. Dean didn’t want to look at either injury.

What now?

Dean sat on the grass, listening to the easy sway of the trees. This was a real forest. He didn’t know where he’d been before, but it had not been real. An illusion conjured by the monster, possibly.

Dean looked down at the deer and wondered what to do with it. It didn’t seem right to leave it. He no longer had the tools to bury it, since his bag of supplies was on the other side of the shadowed veil. As were his sandwiches. He couldn’t eat this deer though. He couldn’t.

Dean looked up at the forest, wondering what magic was living amongst the trees. Perhaps it was dangerous; the disappearance of so many people spoke to such a thing. Nevertheless, an unexplainable instinct told him there was a chance that it was a neutral, or even positive force. It had let Dean leave the path to reconcile his mistake, and Dean could only imagine that had been a conscious decision of something, somewhere.

This forest was alive. Dean had always known it, he’d always heard its whispers.

Live things, intelligent things, they sometimes listened to reason. So, Dean decided to speak.

“I want to take this deer back to the outpost,” he said, speaking as loudly as he had for the assembly last night. “If I leave it here it’ll rot to nothing.” He swallowed, then went on, “I know if I leave it here, some other animals would eat it. But if I take it back, it will feed hungry men and women. This forest has taken their families and they can’t hunt here any more. A deer this size would feed dozens of them.”

He shut his eyes and gave himself to his words. “Please,” he said. “Please, let me get back. I mean the forest no harm, I only want to stop the townsfolk from being taken.”

He waited for a long moment, then stood up.

Nothing made any movement, but the trees whispered. Dean’s blood chilled at the sound of it so close, but now he felt like everything he’d said had been heard.

He swung the gun over his back on its strap, then crouched to his knees and lifted the deer. At first, blood drooled from the beast’s head wound, but the flow began to steady to a drip while Dean strained under the weight of muscled flesh. The deer was as heavy as a human, but far more awkward in shape.

Dean staggered into a walk, heading in the direction he’d come from. He blinked – and with the blink came different surroundings. He was back on the path, the tunnel, with no grass to trip him. He was wary of it – was he trapped, was he being told no?

He blinked again without meaning to, but was glad he did – a group of mushrooms had spontaneously grown in the centre of the path, in the clear shape of an arrow. It pointed along the path ahead.

“Thanks,” Dean said, hearing the fear in his own voice. He didn’t try to look for his bag; that would probably be pushing his luck.

He carried the dead deer for half an hour before setting it down to rest. He was sweating, aching, and his legs were trembling like he himself was just a newborn fawn. He didn’t think he could keep going for very much longer. He was walking slower than he had on the way in, and therefore still had upwards of two-and-a-half hours of walking to reach the place he’d come in. He took a five-minute rest, doing his best to keep the thought out of his head that _this_ was how all those people had gone missing.

He closed his eyes for a while, recuperating his energies.

When he opened his eyes again, a gap had appeared in the shrubbery off the side of the path, as big as a cart. Dean’s eyes widened, convinced it was new. Through the gap he could see the outpost in afternoon daylight... and he could hear it, too.

“Thank you― _Thank you_ ,” Dean said aloud, flicking his eyes to the forest above, which rustled in response.

Dean grabbed the deer and hauled it back over his shoulders, and with renewed motivation, he walked right out of the forest and into a grassy field. He laughed, and kept on walking towards the town.

_Changing the rules, are we?_

_We didn’t want the deerman to die, that’s all. He knows more about our plague than the other people. Maybe he can help._

_What about his silver trinket, though? Castiel won’t like that. Castiel won’t like that at all._

_Yes. We’re right. The deerman thinks_ we _are taking those humans – he probably thinks Castiel is dangerous too. Let’s keep the deerman away. If he comes back, we won’t let him anywhere near Castiel._

_That’s a very good idea. We’re glad we thought of that, aren’t we?_

_Yes. Very glad._

The forest became peaceful in its smugness, whispers falling to silence.

“These?” Dean lifted the collection of amulets from the leather straps around his neck, showing them to the group of townsfolk who gathered around him. “They’re standard-issue hunter gear, they protect me from monsters.”

“I want one,” said a little girl down by Dean’s waist. She turned around to her mother, pulling on her long skirt. “Mommy, I don’t want the monster to get me!”

Dean spent five more minutes explaining the use for each of his amulets, and in the end lost them all to some little blonde boy’s greedy hands when the crowd scattered.

Dean groaned, sitting heavily on a tree stump. The only amulet he had now was the silver bracelet on his wrist, dangling with numerous symbols, each a perfect match for the ones on his necklaces. Dean stroked the bracelet, taking comfort from the sway of the tiny charms against his fingertips.

He’d returned from the forest nearly an hour ago, but due to a bombardment of questions, he hadn’t been able to get beyond the clearing he’d departed from earlier that day. He felt rather unhappy, not to mention fatigued.

Missouri came up to him, offering a sandwich she’d stashed in her pocket. Dean wolfed it down hungrily, making no attempt to be polite. He still had deer blood on his hands, but his imposing appetite overrode the need for hygiene.

Missouri sat on the stump beside Dean, letting go of a sigh. “You’re going to try again, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Dean said, swallowing the last mouthful and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tomorrow, if I can. I’ll be better prepared this time. No blinking, no dropping my bag, no shooting at things unless I can see what they are.”

“There are some people who think you already killed the monster. They won’t eat the deer because they think they’ll turn into monsters too.”

“It’s just a pronghorn,” Dean chuckled. “No more demonic than I am.”

“They don’t know that. You were sent in to get a deer and you came back with a deer. They didn’t expect you to come back at all.”

Dean gave Missouri a soft smile. “To be honest, I didn’t expect to either. I’m glad I did, though.” He sighed slowly, resting over his thighs. His skin felt blood-sticky, and he smelled like the forest. He looked down at his boots and saw they were speckled with mud from the forest path.

He shut his eyes, resting his hand over his face. “I’ve never killed a deer before,” he said. “I don’t do that, I don’t kill things without knowing if they’re good or bad first. I made a terrible mistake today.”

“No... No, honey.” Missouri rested her hand on Dean’s knee, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “If you hadn’t shot that deer you never would have learned the forest’s secret. I always knew it had a mind of its own, but I never knew it had a will.”

Dean tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it. “Seems like I paid a price for that knowledge. That deer did, too. Sure, the people here get dinner, but I’m all full up with guilt now. That pronghorn was doing nothing but eating grass and I shot it for chewing too loudly.”

Missouri didn’t have a word to comfort him, and Dean didn’t expect her to provide one. He stood up, taking a breath of too-cold air. “I’m going back to the inn,” he said. “Try and prepare for tomorrow.”

“I’ll send you up some dinner later,” Missouri said, petting Dean’s hand as he moved to walk away. “And Dean?”

Dean paused and looked back at her.

Missouri smiled. “I’m so grateful the forest let you come back.”

Dean smiled, inclining his head to her. Then he turned and walked on down the street, very aware that there were people watching him and talking about him as he went.

Back at his room, Dean closed the window shutters, leaving stripes of silver daylight across the wooden walls. Then he stripped himself of his clothes and threw them to the floor. He reached for the jug of water and the washbasin, which were waiting on the ledge at the side of the room, and he dipped the washcloth in the water. It was cold enough to make his skin numb, but all he cared about was being clean. He wiped himself down, ignoring the water that dripped to the floor and ran down his legs in rivulets.

When he was done, he gave his clothes the same treatment. His movements became faster, sharper, angry at himself. Angry about the deer. Angry he dropped his bag, his bag with his clothes and the paper to write to Sam, his beloved copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , and all his weapons but his gun.

Dean put his wet shirt and underpants back on, shivering. He pulled the top blanket off his bed and wrapped himself in it, then reached for the cigarette case in the pocket of his discarded trousers. He opened the case and tapped out one cigarette, but when his fingers dipped back into his pocket, he couldn’t find his lighter.

Dean sighed and sat heavily on the bed, chewing the cigarette in his melancholy.

Someone knocked on the door.

Dean sat up quickly and put his cigarette on the nightstand, then rushed to open the door and see who it was. Miss Elsie Calling Goat stood in the hallway, holding a platter of food, some fresh clothes hanging over one arm. Dean gasped and reached for the clothes, then the platter, and was holding it all before he looked up at Miss Elsie and smiled bashfully.

“Hi,” he said. “Do you... want to come in?”

“Thank you,” Miss Elsie said, entering with a gentle drift. Dean closed the door behind her, cramming a chicken leg between his teeth. He looked down at himself, then up at Miss Elsie as she turned to look at him.

“I’m not dressed,” Dean said, with his mouth full on one side. “Sorry. Blanket was the next best thing.”

“Beware of that blanket, I think they have bedbugs here,” Miss Elsie said, and Dean laughed uneasily.

“Yeah, so I heard,” he said. “Um. Would you like to sit down?”

Miss Elsie sat slowly on the bed, and her grey dress poofed as her weight pushed the shape out from her bustled skirt. Dean swallowed his food, pondering the woman as she looked around herself. In this light, her face was thrown into sharp relief, and Dean could see scars on her face, mottled marks like acid burn. He ached inside at the sight, convinced someone else had attacked her years ago.

Dean put the rest of the chicken back on the platter, and put the platter beside his washbasin of dirty water. He rinsed his hands with fresh water from the jug, then wandered closer to Elsie.

“Is there something you wanted to see me about?” Dean asked.

Miss Elsie looked up with soulful eyes. She opened her hand and showed Dean his lighter. “I found this, whatever it is.”

Dean gave a pleased chuckle. “It’s a cigarette lighter,” he said, reaching for it. “One-of-a-kind, actually. Uses friction to make a spark.” Elsie handed it to him, and Dean picked up his chewed cigarette, put it between his lips, then flicked at the lighter twice before the cigarette lit up with red. Dean smiled in relief as smoke curled out of his nose in easy tendrils. “Thanks,” he said, plucking his cigarette between two fingers and exhaling his mouthful of smoke in a downwards stream. “Guess I dropped it.”

Miss Elsie shook her head. “A boy named Edgar stole it from your pocket. I teach him at the school. I saw him take it and I got it back for you.”

Dean bent his head and gestured fluidly to Miss Elsie. She smiled.

“I also brought you these back.” Miss Elsie reached into a hidden pocket in her dress, and from it, she pulled out a tangle of leather cords. All of Dean’s amulets hung from their strands as Elsie lifted them, and Dean went forward with a grin to take them.

Miss Elsie tucked her tufty black hair behind her ear, stroking her plait. “Edgar took those too. I don’t know what he was going to do with them, but I caught him leaving an alleyway and confiscated them. Now they’ve been copied by the blacksmith – he intends to sell replicas to the townspeople.”

Dean sighed, then shrugged as he put the amulets back on all at once. “So long as everyone feels safe, that’s fine by me. But don’t go thinking it was the amulets keeping me from being taken. I honestly don’t know why I’m still here.”

Miss Elsie looked down at her hands, which fidgeted on her knees. “Missouri told me you did something very smart which kept you safe.”

Dean pulled his cigarette from his mouth, blowing a thoughtful smoke ring as he wrapped the blanket tighter around him. “Don’t know about smart,” he said, “but if Missouri thinks so I suppose I’d best accept it, else I’ll be in for a fight.” He grinned when Elsie met his eye.

“You know Missouri well,” Elsie said.

Dean nodded. “She was – _is_ – like my surrogate mother. A surrogate for both my parents, really. She looked after my little brother too.”

“She teaches the girls embroidery at school,” Miss Elsie smiled. “She comes in on Wednesdays, I think her classes are a lot of fun.”

Dean nodded, going to sit on the bed beside Miss Elsie. “She taught me how to write my name in thread when I was three,” he said proudly.

Miss Elsie looked at him oddly, stroking her plait again and again. “Do you still do embroidery?”

Dean shrugged, putting his bare heel against the bed so he could rest his chin on his knee while he blew out another puff of smoke. “It’s as entertaining as anything else, I suppose.”

Miss Elsie laughed softly, turning her face away. She was quiet for a moment.

Then she turned to look at Dean. “I want to go with you to find my sister.”

Dean shut his eyes and let all the smoke in his lungs go at once. He shook his head as he reached to the nightstand beside the bed to stub out his cigarette on the china plate there. Then he stood up, leaving the blanket behind to fall into a tired pile of wool. He was thoroughly underdressed for being in the company of a lady, but he didn’t think either of them cared right now.

“Elsie. Look – I can’t. I can’t just let you come with me.”

“You have a brother. Imagine what it would be like to lose him, and then you try and tell me not to care! Even if it’s dangerous to go, I must find her!”

Dean ran his hand back through his short hair, pacing the room in his bare feet. What was he meant to do? Should he tell her?

He stopped pacing, standing before Elsie’s knees. His sympathy for her was more crushing than anything else he felt. He looked down at her, but upon realising he looked and acted too much like her other oppressors, Dean knelt instead of standing. He reached to reassure her, but curled his fingers back before he could touch her skirt.

“I’m sorry, Miss Elsie Calling Goat. Believe me when I say I think you’re strong enough. On any other hunt I would let you come even if I knew it would be dangerous.” He bowed his head, too weak-willed to look her in the eye. “But twenty-eight people were taken, you have to understand that that’s a _lot_ of people. When I’ve gone on hunts like this before, there’s five people missing at the most. But the thing is... on those hunts, _if_ I find those people...” he looked up, finding strength in his hurt, “those people are barely alive. Usually they’re already dead.”

Elsie’s eyes had filled with tears, and Dean could see how distraught she was becoming. He refrained from stroking her knee, desperate to soothe her but aware he didn’t have any right to do so.

He swallowed and looked down at Elsie’s hands, where her fingers twined and clutched in her dress. “I can’t let you come because it would only endanger you pointlessly; we’d be going on a mission that in all likelihood will end with bad news. I will still do everything I can to find out where your sister went. But I’m― I’m not expecting to find her alive.”

Elsie let out a terrible sob, shattered and heartbroken. Dean let her curl forwards over his shoulders, and he reached to touch her neck. She trembled, then stood and pushed Dean away, sweeping past him to get to the door.

“I’m sorry,” Dean called to her, meaning what he said. He heard the door close, then footsteps running away.


	3. One Deer, Two Deers

Dean made his way through the crowd again on Wednesday morning. The turnout was larger this time, over a hundred people. The whole population of Black Hills Outpost seemed to have taken interest and wanted to see him off again. He received the same treatment as the previous day: pats to the back, muttered well-wishes. However, he was aware of a change since yesterday. Everyone seemed tentative. He’d defied the forest’s powers, a forest which had forced these people’s lives upside-down, and that made him worthy of fear.

Dean looked for Elsie, but couldn’t see her face in the crowd.

A hand grabbed Dean’s wrist to get his attention. A pale, gaunt woman stood before him, her red hair tied in a bun behind her head. She trod on Dean’s foot in the commotion, and when Dean looked down, he saw her maroon dress was dirty at the hem. “Dean Winchester,” the woman said, letting Dean’s wrist go free. “My name is Charlotte.” Her soft voice blended with all the chatter around them, but her Scottish accent drew Dean’s focus. “I’m a good friend of Elsie’s.”

Dean smiled. “I was just looking for her.”

Miss Charlotte’s eyes seemed intent, like she had something important to say. “She’s not coming to see you. You said something to her.”

Dean shut his eyes and lowered his face, grasping his hand tight on his replacement bag. “I told her―”

“There’s no need to repeat it,” Charlotte said hastily. “I know. You really hurt her.”

Dean tried to lift his eyes, but found he couldn’t. Miss Charlotte stepped even closer as she was jostled by the crowd, and Dean had to step back before they collided.

Dean swallowed, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out his lighter. He slipped it into Charlotte’s hand, closing her fingers around it. “Give this to Elsie,” he said. “I can’t promise to save her sister but I can promise I’ll want to come back for this. Tell her to look after it for me.”

“What for?” Miss Charlotte said, voice becoming hard.

“For faith that I’ll come back at all,” Dean said, gripping Charlotte’s hand. Then he pushed away from her and waded towards the front of the crowd.

Dean shook the mayor’s hand again. As he did, he couldn’t help the thought that if he came back out of the forest again, only to go back in another day, his sendoff would not be so respectful next time. As of right now, his presence was a novelty. Once the novelty and the fresh hope of finding the missing people wore off, nobody would still be standing here but Missouri.

Dean took Missouri’s sandwiches and put them into his new leather bag with a grateful smile, then rested his cheek on her shoulder as she embraced him. It didn’t last as long as it had yesterday. Now that Dean knew he could escape the forest if he needed to, he had less reason to savour human contact the way he would if he feared never having it again.

He gave Missouri a bold nod. “I’ll be fine this time.”

“You better,” Missouri said, chucking Dean under the chin. She smiled warmly, but Dean had to look away.

He let out a breath, faced the forest, and marched inside.

It got dark and quiet just like it had before. He tried to take a step back, but met with thick branches. He stood there and looked at them curiously. “What’s this about, huh?” he asked the forest. “People come in, and then they can’t get back out. Why? Do you want them for something?”

Dean followed the path, trying not to blink. He’d learned that blinking was what changed his surroundings, and by avoiding a complete blink for five whole minutes, squinting tightly or winking instead, he managed to manipulate the forest into losing its illusion of the fake path.

Now the path branched in two directions, which was something Dean hadn’t encountered here before. He winked one eye, then the other, standing at the fork with his hands on his hips.

“Which way,” he muttered.

He winked his right eye again – and was startled to see an arrow made of growing grass pointing to the right path. “Sneaky,” Dean said to the air. “Are we gonna play this game? Outwit each other until... Until what?”

The trees whispered. Dean took a deep breath, eyeing both paths with thoughtful scrutiny.

He took the path to the left.

“Ah-ha, yeah, that’s right,” Dean chuckled, hearing the forest whisper its disapproval. “I want to know what happens when I don’t do what you say. Because, all right, you helped me out yesterday, and I’m grateful. I am! You wouldn’t believe how much.” He climbed a short, root-knitted bank and carried on, watching the dark shadows beyond the trees, listening for disturbances. “But I’m a hunter. I don’t trust anything, it’s only good sense. If a magic forest is giving me a magic path and magically telling me to follow it, I’m left wondering what’s at the end of that path. It took me hours yesterday and I only caught a clue because I broke away.”

Dean splashed his way through a puddle, then grabbed a dangling vine and pulled himself up another bank, grinning when he found a clearing. “Thought so,” he said, winking left, then right. “This forest grows as natural as any other forest. There’s no path. There’s just trees. And animals, too. Found that out yesterday.” Dean stood in the middle of the clearing, turning his chin upward and feeling delight and relief as he saw daylight peeking through the droopy leaves above. “God, that’s beautiful.”

The trees whispered again, voices drifting on a motionless breeze. Dean smirked, because it sounded very much like the forest was pleased by his compliment.

Dean gasped aloud as he saw a rabbit scamper away from a tree root, frightened by his presence. Dean shifted his bag and gun further onto his shoulder, watching the rabbit’s bobbing white tail disappear between another set of trees. There was silver light through their trunks, and Dean moved towards it.

_Too clever! Much too clever! What are we meant to do now?_

_Castiel is close. This is terrible, we have to act. We should hurt the deerman. Drop a tree on him, maybe. If he’s hurt he can’t go any further._

_But if he’s hurt, how will he stop our plague? He’s a danger to Castiel, but this plague is a worse threat to us. We need the deerman to save us, that’s more important than saving Castiel from his gun._

_No! How dreadful. How could we even think that? Castiel is our friend. If Castiel is killed, the deerman will think his job is done. Protecting Castiel is the most important thing. We must steer the deerman away._

_But he won’t obey our instructions! He won’t follow our path! If we let him stay in the real forest he’ll be taken like all the other people, and then none of it will matter._

_We should kill him._

_No. No, no, don’t say such things. We’re not killers. We can’t hurt him. If we hurt him we’re no better than the plague. We need to do something that will incapacitate him while keeping him as clever as he is. Once he knows enough about the plague to help us, we’ll let him go free._

_But what to do?_

_We’ll think of something._

Dean followed the glow. The sight of its shimmer on the tree trunks became more uncanny the farther into the illumination he walked. It was as bright as a sunset, as if the light was reflecting off water.

“Weird,” Dean said to himself, one hand on his gun strap. “It’s like the moon.”

He couldn’t tell where it was coming from any more. Every few steps he took, he peered around another tree, only to see the source of the light blocked by more trees.

“That’s not possible,” Dean heard himself mutter as he pulled himself up a crumbling ridge, carelessly soiling his clothes with damp mud. He flicked a worm off his hand, squinting. Learning not to blink had been a challenge, but now it was almost easy. His eyes watered, though – the light was getting brighter, rippling more. It hummed, but not in his ears, in his eyes. The air seemed to tremble. It wasn’t getting warmer, or colder, but there was definitely something changing, and it changed more the closer he got.

Whispers. Whispers, whispers. They followed Dean’s footsteps like echoes. Dean ignored them. The whispers may have sounded like a warning, but he didn’t make a habit of trusting the supernatural.

Dean stepped out from behind a tree, and saw a light so bright it forced him to turn away. He hid back behind the trunk, breathing hard. He shook at the knees, staring back the way he’d come. He could see the disturbances in the fallen leaves, his own trail. Nothing had been changed now he’d walked past, the way it had with the mushrooms. He suddenly felt very alone; the whispers carried on, but they were not friendly any more. They were hostile, pushing against his ears.

Dean wanted to close his eyes and shut everything out. It was overwhelming, and he knew he was in some kind of trouble here. What lay beyond this tree was what he’d come here to kill; he became more and more convinced in every heart-thumping second that passed.

Dean gripped his gun, checking it was loaded. He put his bag on the ground, hoping he would live through this encounter so he could eat those delicious sandwiches. Steadying himself, he took quiet, calming breaths.

Then he stepped out from behind the tree, his gun pointed at the light. It burned his eyes, made them sting and water, and an irrepressible blink was imminent – but then the light dimmed. It moved suddenly on the spot, and Dean saw clearly what was there.

A glowing stag stood beside a small pond, its front hooves in the water, its head raised and turned towards Dean. It was silver all over, except for a black fade on its muzzle. It antlers were broad, proud shapes, its eyes blue and curious. It stared at Dean in wonder, head tilting.

Dean’s breath huffed from his mouth, his finger on the trigger of his gun.

Whispers danced around his head, trying to call him away, distract him. He dared not listen; his mission was here, his job was _here_. He was meant to kill the deer and leave.

So why couldn’t he pull the trigger? Was it magic?

No, he realised. He remained still, held back by so many things, and none of them were magic. He was flawed by his own empathy. A deer was a symbol of peace and innocence to him. The light of its pale, shimmering blue cast a calmness over Dean. He stared at the creature and thought it was beautiful.

Dean began to lower his gun.

_NOW! Do it now before he shoots!_

_But he won’t shoot! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!_

_We can’t take that chance! Now!_

Dean felt his knees buckling, and his gun fell from his hand and landed on the ground – it fired by itself, and he saw smoke emerge from its tip. Dean couldn’t worry about where the pellets went, because now he had looked down, he saw his clothes ripping, his knees folding back the wrong way. He fell to the ground in a position of prostration, bowing to the deer against his will; he looked up at it in pleading, silently begging it to stop whatever it was doing to him. Dean wasn’t in pain, but panic shattered his voice and all that came out was a cry of terror.

Fur was growing on his hands. His fingers had vanished; he blinked on purpose but they didn’t come back. Hooves. The joints in his elbows grew fat and suddenly clicked; he had knees by his chin, his face too close to the floor as he panted.

His spine felt like it was twisting, curving up, growing. He felt his shirt tear, then his leather coat stretch to a point where the stitches made his skin hurt. His belly felt cold, then hot. In horror, he looked down at his chest and didn’t see skin, but thick, tufty brown fur.

He shouted and looked back to the deer with wide eyes. The creature stood over him with radiant majesty, watching with its head bowed. It did not look menacing, but confused. Dean sobbed up at it, and didn’t care he was crying, he was so scared. He shut his eyes in his distress. He could smell the earth, the water. He was sprawled in the mud with his legs splayed out.

Then, everything stopped. He opened his eyes. In the light of the softly-glowing deer, Dean saw that his own face was too long. He had a brown, wriggling nose.

He turned his head back over his shoulder and his mind spun madly at the sight; he had a furry rump, wild legs, and a small, flicking tail. His coat was stretched across his upper back and shoulders, but the fact that Dean could turn his neck to see that far told him enough: he was no longer human.

Dean wailed in dismay, and it came out as a distended, elongated squeak, like a closing door.

He turned back to the glowing deer and looked up at it pleadingly. _What did you do to me?_ His words became a bark, rough and sudden. Dean yelped again, alarmed at hearing himself sound like that.

He lowered his head, fearful of the deer as it moved closer, graceful in its step. Dean watched its cloven hooves scuff into the mud as it came within inches of his face. Dean’s heart was racing, his mouth full of the smell of the ground. Everything sounded different with these ears; he swivelled them on instinct, listening for the glowing deer’s breath.

Dean felt a snuffling touch on the back of his neck. He startled, trying to back away. He managed to rear up on clumsy legs, but jarred the joints as he tried to bend them the way they were meant to – but he wasn’t a human any more, they didn’t bend like that. He stumbled, falling into the mud, his body rolling with his own unfamiliar weight. He fell into the pond, sinking heavily into the silt on its bank.

Startled by the second advance the glowing deer made, Dean tried to get to his feet again. He picked his hooves up carefully, squelching in the mud. He tiptoed past the creature with over-exaggerated steps, head down in automatic submission; he couldn’t attack it now, he needed to escape and decide what to do afterwards. He was under a spell, he was sure of it.

Breathing hard, Dean managed to back away to the tree where he’d entered the clearing. The deer waited by the pond with its head cocked to the side, little pulses of light coming from its chest. It seemed to glow from its flesh, and its fur just followed suit, tingling with moon-silver. The dark fur on its nose somehow glowed too. The light got brighter as Dean stepped backwards, retreating.

Dean turned his head away and attempted to run, but his front hoof got caught in the strap of his bag and he fell; he’d forgotten the bag was there.

Now bruised and thoroughly terrified, Dean got to his feet once again and taught himself how to walk. He bobbed, limping; his rear legs bent automatically when he lifted his back feet to his belly. His front feet were more difficult to move, since his leather coat was very tight. He soon realised his front legs moved like the wheel mechanism on the side of a train. Once Dean created the pattern for it in his mind’s eye, he yapped in quiet relief as he began to walk faster.

He could feel the dampness of the ground, feel his weight. He was heavy, his head was heavy—

Dean’s head caught on a tree trunk, and he came to dead stop. His head was nowhere _near_ the tree.

Dean turned to look at the tree, and he was released. He turned back to where he was going, and he was stuck again.

He took a step back. He had antlers. Just like the glowing deer, he had branches protruding from each side of his head. The realisation made him quiver. He swallowed, and walked gingerly around the tree, leaving a clear berth for his antlers to pass too.

As he walked on, he stared at the gloomy path ahead, seeing its uneven walkways and fallen logs and broken daylight gleaming on wet leaves. This was the real forest, not the illusion. He had lost all sense of direction now; he might never find his way back to the outpost. The forest didn’t seem likely to help him any more, since he’d disobeyed and gotten himself into trouble. And would the forest even understand his words now? He couldn’t talk English, his deer vocal chords were too underdeveloped for that.

He heard a snip behind him, and he whipped around to see what the noise was. His legs twisted and he fell, rolling with the movement until he was on his back. His coat muffled the impact, protecting him from being stabbed by twigs. He wriggled mightily, gasping – and he thrust himself back to his feet, shaking his head free of stuck leaves.

The glowing deer was twenty paces behind, its head still tilted like a curious cat’s. It was looking right at Dean.

Dean brayed a warning. _Back off, don’t come any closer._

The creature took a tentative step forward. It called to him, mouth open to show a pink tongue. “ _Waaaugh._ ”

Dean snorted, finding inappropriate humour in the situation. Hysteria, maybe it was hysteria. He backed away, nostrils flaring as his breath started to hasten again. The glowing deer was following him slowly, but it was still advancing.

Dean turned and fled, back left foot, front right foot, back right foot, front right foot – stumble. He got the hang of it after a few seconds, and began to speed up. Hurrying, hurrying away.

He reached a copse of yellow aspen trees and got tangled, and he had to back up, shaking his head to get rid of broken twigs in his antlers.

He turned his head and there was the glowing deer, still advancing. It barked at him. Dean barked back, threatening it, but he sounded scared.

He ran, and exhaled gladly as he picked up speed. He carried himself over the ground with swift leaps, laughing as he headed for open woods, with taller trees and fewer low-hanging branches. He didn’t know where he was heading, but he felt freedom. To run this fast was exhilarating. His silver bracelet bit into his front leg, and the weight of his antlers slowed him, but he kept going.

The sound of the other deer kept his heart pounding. Hooves echoed behind him, yelps coming at steady intervals. Dean ran faster and faster, ducking thick bur oak branches, scooting around shrubs. He was out of breath, grunting hard on his exhales, too hot in his coat. His chest shook, his legs ached. How did deer even support themselves with such skinny limbs?

Then, the thunder of the other deer’s hooves stopped. Dean turned his head while he ran to check if he was still being chased, but a bird – a glowing nightjar – flapped into his face and hit his antlers. Dean’s rhythm faltered, and his rump lowered as he skidded on wet peat, screaming as he bumped down into a short gulley.

He splashed into a stream, water flowing over his folded legs.

He heaved for breath, looking about himself to see where the bird had gone. It was perched on his right antler, glowing brightly as it leaned forward so it could make eye contact with Dean.

_Get off!_ Dean yelled at it, shaking his head like a dog drying itself. The bird chirped and fluttered off, swooping until it cleared Dean’s space. Dean turned around and tried to leave, back on his feet, but then he heard a thump—

The glowing deer was beside him, blinking serenely. The bird was gone. Dean felt chills of fear quake through him, and his instinct was to run again. He leapt up onto the far bank, finding himself in denser forest. There were vines hanging down, leaves tickling his face as he fought his way through with his eyes half-closed.

“ _Waauuugh,_ ” came a unhelpful cry from behind him. That damn thing was still chasing him.

_What the hell do you want?!_ Dean shouted, grimacing as his face hit a giant leaf. No reply came.

Then Dean’s antlers got too stuck, and he couldn’t move forward. Instead, he ducked and crawled under a large plant to hide. He tried to catch his breath, listening hard as he did.

“ _Wraaugh,_ ” the creature moaned again. Its hoofsteps approached.

Dean held his breath as the moon-glow touched the nearby plants. He kept his head down, pretending he was a tree stump, or something equally unnoticeable.

The glowing stag paused a few feet from Dean’s face. Sheepishly, Dean looked up at it. It peered down at him with its bizarrely blue eyes, a sparkle radiating from its core. It tilted its head, letting the vines caught on its antlers fall to the ground.

Dean whined in defeat. He backed up and got to his feet, head retracted, eyes closed. He expected to be eaten any moment now, or dragged back to the creature’s lair. It had caught him the same way it had caught all the other missing people. He was a dead man. Dead deer.

Without warning, it got very warm. The heat had no obvious source. A distant whistle began to sound, and it became deeper, howling like a breeze over a hollow log. Dean kept his eyes closed, waiting for the end to come.

But then Dean heard the creature take a soft breath, and Dean’s eyes opened. The deer was not looking at him, but at the densely-grown area around them. It seemed concerned, a frown between its deerish eyebrows.

Seeing the creature distracted, Dean’s flight response kicked in, and he backed away, turning to run again. He was swallowed up by flora almost immediately, and he growled as he burst through leafy net after leafy net, all four knees cut by sharp grass, eyes stung by flicked water. It was a struggle that kept him aching, breathless.

This place seemed to be getting warmer. It was almost _hot_. The air prickled at his eyes, and made him sweat under his fur. He found it hard to breathe.

He stopped fighting the forest and listened.

The howling was furious now; it came from the whole world, drowning the harried whispers of the trees.

There was something else _in here_.

This forest was haunted, cursed in so many ways Dean didn’t know where to begin thinking about it. He turned around and began to run back to the deer, because the heat was too much to take and he couldn’t forge a new path any more. Terror pushed him; weakness led him. He followed the silver glow, which was getting brighter by his every step.

“ _Woh!_ ” the other deer called as it saw Dean coming. It took a brisk look around itself, then set its attention back at Dean, its eyes wide. “ _Woh! Wouuhgh!_ ”

_I don’t know what you’re saying,_ Dean told it, huffing as they came face-to-face among the thick leaves. _If you’re going to eat me, make it quick. I’m cooking anyway... Please..._

The deer cocked its head again. It took a few steps backwards, away from Dean—

Wait...

Was it afraid? What was it afraid of?

Were they both afraid of the same thing?

Dean looked back over his shoulder and saw the forest swirling with red. Glowing, in a different way than he’d seen it glowing silver earlier. Now it was brighter, hotter, almost vaporous. Fierce.

Oh, Dean was scared shitless. Literally. He pooped deer poop, then made a terribly embarrassed noise as he realised what he’d done.

But then the glowing deer squawked, and Dean saw it retreat. It gave Dean a significant look, a _come with me now_ look. Dean eyed it warily. It twitched its head sideways, an obvious gesture.

Dean’s tail began to singe. He gasped and toppled after the other deer, following at its tail as it made its way out of the choking greenery.

They fell one after the other into the stream, and Dean breathed deeply, welcoming the coolness of the open air. But the other deer was prancing about, hooves splashing in the water. “ _Waaugh,_ ” it cried, casting nervous looks towards the reddening forest. It started to run, then paused and looked back at Dean. “ _Wah!_ ”

Dean weighed his options. He couldn’t trust the deer, not after what it had done to him.

...Then again, it had probably been self-defence. Dean _had_ been preparing to shoot it in the face, after all. Even if he’d lowered the gun, any creature under that kind of threat would have retaliated. And it hadn’t killed or injured Dean, per se. It had just been really, really peculiar with its choice of punishment.

The glowing deer bounced about in building agitation. The air was scalding again, stifling Dean’s breath. He looked up at the thick part of the forest and was shocked to see it was smoking; something inside had caught fire. The howl was rumbling under the ground, vibrating the stream until it parted mid-flow, pooling around Dean’s furry ankles.

“ _Waugh! Waugh!_ ” the glowing deer roared. It galloped to Dean’s side and turned a circle around him. Dean found himself pushed by its antlers, hefty shoves that made his weight slide in the stream’s silt. Flames burst from the forest, a magical red aura around them. Dean only then realised he was locked solid by fear, and the deer was trying to save him from the fire.

He shook his head free of thoughts and took a step forward, looking back at the deer and nodding. The deer sighed in relief and trotted away, blue eyes on Dean. Dean followed, checking on the fire. It was growing, and its hungry sound was monumental.

Dean ran. Ran fast, knowing death was giving chase.

Nothing beneath this forest’s canopy was natural. The earth was dug from the deepest pit of Hell, the trees were rooted in that same earth, and their leaves budded from trunks of malice. For Dean, this was a place of demons and death. Right about now he would give anything to be back in the town, eating a meal prepared by Missouri.

He remained a length behind the other deer, yelping as the fire shot to catch up with them, running at their heels like a playful hellhound. The glowing deer brayed reassurance, aware they were being herded into another fire-hot part of the forest. Dean galloped mindlessly now, following the deer-shaped moonlight, just wanting not to die.

The deer turned its head to the sky as it fled, eyes searing bright blue. It called upwards, keening horribly. Their antlers clashed by mistake, and the other deer’s focus shattered, looking over at Dean. Dean’s mouth opened, and he wanted to apologise, but the deer didn’t wait a single moment before looking back up and bellowing to the sky again.

A reaching hand of fire swept the muddy plain, soaring towards them. Dean instinctively shoved the other deer out of the way. They drove into a tree, and Dean cried out as the fiery hand stopped him mid-stride, clutching at his throat and front legs. It was twice the size of him, and it burned.

The howling was drowned out by the sound of thunder. The sky rippled with the din, and Dean’s flickering ears were pained by the almighty pulsing of the world around him. Fire on his face kept his eyes shut, burning him, burning him badly. He struggled against it, but he was well and truly caught.

He felt a kick, a pair of swift hooves pouncing down on his own. He looked through watering, tearful eyes and saw the moonlit deer stomping on the firehand. The deer’s light beamed energetically, bright as a silver sun. The firehand broke away like it was in pain, and Dean gasped – the deer had saved him.

Shaking on exhausted legs and breathing hard, Dean realised he could smell his own burned fur. He looked up and saw the firehand pulling back into a wall of more yellow and red. It crackled and lashed, taunting Dean and the other deer as it then advanced towards them again.

Both stags were both surrounded by fire now. There was no escape. The sound was deafening.

Then... there came a cool splash. Dean blinked as water fell into his eyelashes, and he looked up.

The heavens broke all of a sudden, and pitter-patters of rain became a hefty torrent, a monsoon of water falling through the overhead canopy. Thunder rolled once more, and the downpour engulfed the flames. The ground shook as the elements did battle, water over fire, steam rising in a billowing plume to cover the daylight.

Dean looked over at the glowing deer in his confusion, and saw the creature standing bold; front feet together, head held high. It seemed defiant, and proud. It dripped with rain, but that did nothing to keep it from looking handsome.

It noticed Dean looking at it, and turned its head to look back. It wasn’t scary this time. Dean felt protected by its gaze. _His_ gaze, Dean corrected. Male deer were the ones with antlers. Dean nodded to the stag in thanks, then took a quick look around the clearing.

Smoked shapes cast the floor with black, dotted here and there with smouldering ash and small red embers. The embers were suffocated by the rain, and the moment they were gone, the rain petered out. The sky rumbled as if its stomach was empty, and the daylight slowly returned. The forest was still shrouded in gloom, but it no longer looked as dreadful as it had that morning.

Dean sighed and closed his eyes, feeling a huge weight lifted.

He realised when he blinked again that he only felt lighter because he’d collapsed. His antlers struck the ground when his head flopped low, and the little daylight he could see faded incredibly quickly.

Dean awoke to the sensation of being stroked, something damp and soothing on his nose. The feeling of fur being pushed the wrong way was what eventually made him crack open his eyes, and he saw that long, brown deer nose in front of him, and a crackling fire, and his heart began to pound.

“Shh,” said a gentle, low voice. A hand touched Dean’s shoulders, and Dean became aware his leather coat had been removed. “Be still.”

Dean brayed, trying to see who had rescued him. What if they intended to eat him? _I’m a person! I’m a person, don’t eat me!_

“Be still, I said,” the deep voice said again. “You have nothing to fear. You’re in my hut. You’ve had a bad shock, and you’ve put a strain in your leg, but you will be fine.”

Expending great effort, Dean lifted his head, and at last his eyes focused on a man’s face, illuminated in orange by the firelight. He was young, Dean could tell that easily, but... there was something old about him. His skin was lightly tanned, and almost leathery, like he’d been outside for years. He had stubble on his diamond-shaped jaw, and his dark hair extended in soft, messy sweeps over his forehead, tucked behind one of his ears. He looked calm, and gentle. His lips parted, and he stroked Dean’s head as he spoke.

“Don’t worry. You probably won’t be a deer forever.”

Dean lit up inside with hope. _I’m a man! I’m a man just like you._

The man’s eyes crinkled slightly as he squinted. It was like he nearly understood what Dean said, but was straining to translate the animal calls into English.

_Please,_ Dean said to him, urging him with all his heart to understand, _Please, my name is Dean Winchester. I’m a human man. A creature – a glowing deer – it caught me and turned me into a deer too—_

Dean stopped speaking abruptly when the man tilted his head to one side.

Dean looked into the man’s eyes. He had blue eyes.

Dean passed out.


	4. Hut in the Forest

Missouri gasped and sat up in bed, chest heaving with harsh breath, a cold sweat beginning to prickle in the small of her back. Flashes of her nightmare washed through her mind, bright and hot enough to burn physically.

_Fire. A hand of fire. Cloven deer hooves running over fallen leaves, running, going to die. Hunted by flame. Then comes the thunder, rolling with its open jaws, rushing to consume—_

Missouri whipped her bedsheet back and stood upon the cool wooden floor of her bedroom, combing her fingers back through her wiry hair. Her eyes shot to the window, and she hurried over and reached to pull back the shutters.

It was only minutes until dawn, and the light in the sky ached with the effort of bringing up a new sun. A crescent moon was nearly lost in the midst of the ice-blue atmosphere, and to Missouri it seemed like a scar. She then noticed a black cat meandering between chimneys across the street, and she took it as an omen. Confirmation.

“Oh, Lord, give me strength,” she breathed, her hand resting over her eyes. “Keep that fool boy safe. Keep him safe until I can help him.”

Exhaling, she turned away from the window and tucked back her bedsheets, making them tidy. The situation had now become life-and-death, but a moment could always be spared for bedsheets. It allowed her time to think: she would need to pack, and let somebody know where she was going. If everything went smoothly she could be inside the forest within an hour.

Once she was washed and dressed, she went downstairs and filled a pan with water from the covered tub in the kitchen. The water was mostly ice shards, sharp as knives. Missouri put the pan directly on the embers of last night’s fire, intending to do no more than make the temperature bearable enough to drink.

While she waited, she went around and picked up everything she would need. Cooking utensils, non-perishable food, brandy, chalk, paint, a knife, a gun and bullets. She packed two bags exactly the same.

When the water was lukewarm, she poured it into two identical flasks and put them in the bags, then drank the remainder.

She sat down at her kitchen table, ate oatmeal, and waited with her feet crossed at the ankle, eyes set keenly on her front door.

It was only a matter of minutes before there was a knock. Missouri set her bowl down and went to open the door. Elsie came inside along with an air of concern, as well as the smell of snow.

“The doors at the school are frozen shut,” Elsie said, crouching beside the fire and opening her palms to its heat. “I called the blacksmith but he said there’ll be another half an hour to wait, the water won’t heat quickly. The children shouldn’t arrive for another an hour, but if they do, Charlie’s waiting.”

“Dean’s in danger,” Missouri said, going to soak her dish so it could be washed when she got back home, whenever that would be. “Something in that forest wants him dead.”

When Missouri looked back over her shoulder, she saw the hair on the back of Elsie’s neck had bristled noticeably. She hadn’t moved from the fire, however, just went on staring into its glowing remainders.

“I’m going into the forest,” Missouri said gently, going to wrap her usual cloth band over her head to keep her hair tidy. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Elsie’s whisper sounded harsher than Missouri had expected: “You _can’t_.”

“If Dean can find a way out, then so can I,” Missouri said boldly, going back to the kitchen table and picking up her bag. She rested a hand on the second one, giving it a squeeze. “There ain’t no mind-changing to do about it, I’m going to find that boy and bring him someplace safe.”

Elsie stood up quickly, her grey dress dragging up white ash from the fireplace’s hearth. She still wouldn’t turn around to look at Missouri, and Missouri began to suspect she was trying to hide tears; her voice came out sunken and thick as she implored, “What if you don’t come back out? Now there are twenty-nine people in that forest who haven’t came back. Why do you think you won’t become the thirtieth?”

“Dean came back, honey. Don’t you worry—”

“No!” Elsie swept around, and her glare was furious, and at once Missouri remembered why she had never kept goats: they were formidable when they felt they had a purpose. Elsie’s fast strides took her within inches of Missouri’s wide bust, and a finger rose threateningly towards her chin. “I worry,” Elsie said, with more grief and anger in those words than should have been possible. “Teresa is gone. Charlie’s mother is gone. And now Dean. Yes, he _is_ gone. I remember what I felt when Teresa had been missing a whole night, I was out of my mind with worry. That? That feeling doesn’t go _away_. Dean can tell me what he likes about Teresa being dead already, but I don’t believe him. Dean is in danger, you said—”

“I had a vision.”

Elsie nodded, turning away and passing a hand between them, breaking part of their tension. “So Dean is still alive. But once you go into the forest, who is to say you can navigate it like he did? Will _you_ stay alive? Who will come after _you_? Anyone who does will be offering themselves up to the same fate.”

“It does sound silly, don’t it,” Missouri said with feigned nonchalance, pretending the entire situation didn’t make her skin crawl. “One person following another, pied-piper-like. One by one we go into the forest, chasing cherished folks.” She swallowed, her outward ease broken by fear. “Loved ones we don’t even know we can save.”

“If I could, you know I would go after Teresa,” Elsie said, shaking her head. “Every one of us who lost someone would willingly give up what we have if there was even the _smallest_ chance we could get them back.”

Missouri looked up with emotion swelling in her, pushing on her shell like she was an egg ready to break. “Why don’t you, honey? Why don’t you come too? Lord knows I could do with a little steady conversation.”

Elsie didn’t laugh the idea away, but shut her eyes. “What if _I_ don’t come back?”

“You will,” Missouri said, wishing the words were the kind she knew were absolutely true. They weren’t; they represented nothing more than hope. “We both will.”

“And Dean and Teresa?” Elsie looked up with a teardrop gleam in her caramel eyes. “And everyone else?”

Missouri couldn’t answer. She just gave her friend a soft, brave smile. She then pushed the second pack towards Elsie, nodding when Elsie put her hand on it too.

Elsie sighed. “We will have to tell Charlie. Oh... I don’t look forward to that at all.”

They prepared to leave unceremoniously by a quieter entrance to the forest, situated in a grassy field just outside the town. Charlotte stood there wrapped in a blanket from the school, her eyes glassy with tears, shoulders shaking. Missouri held her elbow for a long time, keeping her from wilting like a flower with a tired stem.

“You take care of Sam,” Missouri said, petting Charlie’s arm. “I sent him a letter telling him what’s going on, where we’re headed. I told him not to worry, but God knows that boy worries almost more than Dean. He’ll be down here in a few days, if I know him at all.”

Charlie nodded and shook her head, swallowing twice. Her fringe of red hair covered her eyes as she looked to the grass, all of it frozen with dew. “I’ll keep him out of the forest,” she promised. “Just, please... come back. Don’t leave me on my own. I can’t run the school by myself, I can’t— I can’t do anything without the both of you.”

“You can,” Elsie said firmly. “Charlie, you know you can. You took care of your mother all those years before you met me or Missouri.”

Charlie huffed. “This is different! With you gone all I have left is this!” She gestured around at the world, but Elsie realised a moment later she was gesturing at winter-chilled, empty air. The tears in her eyes only added to her point: she had nothing left.

Elsie grasped her hand, holding in the same place Missouri held on. “We have no intention of dying,” she assured her.

Charlie chuckled, a noise of half amusement, half scorn. “Neither did everyone else.”

“They are _not_ dead,” Elsie said, letting go of Charlotte and stepping back. “When we come back with them, then you’ll see.”

Elsie turned her back, and she felt Charlie’s gaze following her as she stalked towards the forest. She heard more words pass between Missouri and Charlie, but couldn’t make out their topic.

Eventually, Missouri moved towards the forest and left Charlie standing alone.

Elsie waited by the forest, unable to take her eyes off the other woman. Missouri walked past, and Elsie was ready to follow, but something held her back. Something important, a pulling string.

Elsie called to Missouri, “Wait.”

Missouri stopped, only feet from the darkness of the trees. Elsie took her own bag from her shoulder and handed it to Missouri, dangling pots clanking together.

“One minute,” Elsie promised.

She hurried back to Charlie, sliding her arms around her thin waist. She rested her cheek against Charlie’s neck, feeling the chill in her skin. Charlie’s hands grasped Elsie’s plaited hair, breath curling against her ear as she wept in silence.

“If I ever had a reason to come back,” Elsie said to her, eyes shut tight, made heavy by the weight of her words, “it would be for you. I hate this town, I hate that I’m not allowed back to my tribe. But if I chose a reason to stay here, a reason I would _want_ to stay... It’s you, Charlie.”

Charlotte’s tears fell below Elsie’s dress collar. “Elsie, if you— If you don’t make it, let me know somehow, okay? Send me a dream.”

“I will,” Elsie promised. “I will, Charlie.” She kissed her neck, exhaling gently. “Stay safe.”

“You too.”

Charlie let her slip away, and Elsie floated backwards, their cold fingertips lingering for as far as their arms reached. Then they broke apart, and Elsie walked backwards until Missouri’s hand touched her back.

“You’ll see her again, honey,” Missouri assured her. “Be it in this life or the next. You’ll see them _all_ again.”

“I know,” Elsie said, taking her pack and putting it on. She touched her hand to her lips and offered a last floating kiss to Charlotte, watching her maroon figure become smaller as Elsie walked away. The shadow of the trees covered Elsie’s view of the sky, and she started to blink—

Dean awoke with a massive gasp, legs spasming against a smooth floor. He saw terracotta tiles, his deer knees skimming over it, unable to find purchase to sit up. Dean reached out a hand and grabbed the fireplace hearth, it was hot on his skin—

He had hands! Hands, and deer legs. His bare cheek rested at an awkward angle on a pillow, and he lifted his head, crying out as pain shot through every muscle in his torso. He looked down through watering eyes, seeing his nipples, his bare chest, his naked arms. His midriff was lost in fur, and he breathed hard in his horror as he saw his legs were still thin and furry. Cloven hooves slipped helplessly on the tiles.

Dean turned his head over his shoulder, but couldn’t see his back. He did see enough to send his stomach into a lurch: he still had a deer’s body. Four legs and two hands. Six limbs made him an insect. He was a mammalian insect.

Dean sobbed in his upset, and tried to flop himself back to the pillow. His whole body jarred before he made it, however; an antler hit the tiles and his neck almost broke at the force. He sat up, breathing hard, terrified, losing breath despite gulping it in.

He heard the sound of a creaking door, and a gust of woodland air puffed across his body and cooled the fire heat in his skin. He heard footsteps, and a soft vocal sound.

“Be calm,” the voice said, footsteps nearing. An armful of plants and herbs tumbled to the tiles beside Dean, and he felt a wide hand on his naked human back, another on his throbbing head where the antler protruded. “Oh, what have you done?”

Dean shook his head, gasping desperately, clawing his hands at the man’s shirt. He was wearing brown cloth, patched with different colours, covered with an open leather waistcoat. Dean’s hands battled with the man’s chin, snaring his dry lip. The man hushed him, uttering words that blurred out of Dean’s awareness.

But he understood one word. _Calm_. He heard the word and he heard it again, and finally understood it. His animal ears pricked up to listen to it again.

“Calm,” Dean breathed, tight throat relaxing a little to speak. “Calm. Calm.”

“That’s it,” the man said, his warm hand caressing the hard ache in Dean’s head, another stroking down his sweating back. “You’ve broken your antler, but you’re okay. You’re unhurt. You’re safe.”

Dean tried to turn his head and see what remained of the broken antler, but as the stump was attached to his head, it turned with him. His other still-attached antler bumped the man’s skull, and Dean laughed when he realised what the jolt had been. He grinned madly at the man as he rubbed his sore head, one eye shut tight.

“I hurt you,” Dean laughed. It was funny, he didn’t know why it was funny. Hysteria made everything funny.

The man sighed, blinking up at the ceiling of the hut. Dean looked up too, and his harsh breath slowed as wonder washed over his panic. Bottles hung from the dark rafters, along with drying herbs and entire animal skeletons held together with thread. Dean’s wild panting became regulated exhales, and he shut his gaping mouth to swallow.

“Water,” the man said to himself. He stood up and left Dean alone, and Dean felt unexpectedly lonely without the man’s figure darkening his vision. Now Dean could see daylight through a window. It was an arched, lead-latticed window, with a vine growing across it. The vine was on the _inside_. Outside, there were trees.

The man came back, and in his hand was a glass of water. The glass was thoroughly chipped, and bulbous on one side; Dean could only assume the man had blown the container himself. He sipped at it gratefully, then guzzled it, all the while wondering if the man had built this little house, too.

“Slowly,” the man said, snatching the glass away when Dean was only half done. Dean reached for it again, but the man hushed him, and took his jaw in his hand. “Let me.”

“No,” Dean said, pushing the man’s hands off him. “Give me that.”

He snatched the glass back, and downed the second half, eyes set defiantly on the blue-eyed man. The man knelt properly now, hands resting on his thighs. Dean shoved the glass back in his direction when it was empty. “Thanks,” he said. “I guess.”

The man cradled the glass, looking at it like it was precious to him. Then he looked back at Dean and bowed his head gracefully. “You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean inhaled. “How do you know my name?”

The man frowned. He blinked a few times, then parted his lips with the tip of his tongue. “You told me. You said, your name is Dean Winchester, and—”

“No. No, you didn’t understand me when I said that,” Dean said, adamant. “You’re lying, don’t try and hide it.”

The man sucked on the inside of his lips, slowly setting the empty glass on the stone hearth, where it reflected the flickering golden light, collecting it up and expelling it again with astounding radiance. The man slid his open hands down his thighs, bristling the fibres of his worn trousers. He was quiet for a while, thinking of what to say.

Finally, he looked up and met Dean’s eye. He sighed. “You... You don’t remember me... do you?”

Dean scowled. “You’re the crazy jackass deer who turned me into a goddamn _minotaur_.”

The man’s frown was deep and perplexed. “I didn’t do anything. And a minotaur is half bull. You’re half deer, Dean. You’re a cervitaur.”

“Whatever!”

“You think I did this to you,” the man said sadly. He shook his head. “It wasn’t me, Dean. Some other force. Something unseen. Perhaps it was trying to protect me. You _were_ going to shoot me, after all.”

“I wasn’t—” Dean turned his eyes away, not willing to admit he’d been overwhelmed by the deer’s beauty and had stayed his hand. Now the deer was a man his own age, it seemed improper to admit he found him beautiful. Too much like Basil Hallward when he met Dorian Gray. _I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself._

Dean finally managed to speak. “If it wasn’t you who transformed me, why am I in your hut? Why am I half human now?”

“I have some power,” the man said. He tilted his head again. “I think you know that.”

Dean nodded uncomfortably, avoiding the man’s eyes. “You were a deer. And a bird. And you... glowed.”

“Yes. I can transform. I managed to turn you from a deer to a cervitaur, but my power is limited. I’ve used a lot today. I have to wait before I can try again.”

“Is that why you’re not glowing now, you’re out of juice?”

“No. No, uh— This man is my vessel. My true vessel. Human. He doesn’t glow.” The man paused. “I want to ask you again, Dean. Don’t you remember this face?”

Dean looked at the man’s features, perplexed by the question. “H- How would I...? Why would I remember you?”

The man lifted his hand and swept back his dark hair, showing his face clearly. He turned his head, letting Dean see his profile. “He would have been much younger.” He smiled. “Dirtier, too.”

Dean blinked, examining the man’s handsome face with heavy scrutiny. He imagined him without the weathered lines around his eyes, the thick stubble on his jaw, the hardness of the jaw itself. He imagined the man as a teenager, scrawny and thin and full of adventurous tales, a rough hand outstretched to ruffle Dean’s hair, a tumbling laugh that scared the birds away.

Dean’s lips parted as true recollection dawned on him. “Jimmy,” he breathed.

The man’s eyes crinkled, and he let his hair fall into his eyes before he combed it back with his fingers. Smiling, he nodded. “The teenage boy who went missing from the town.”

“We— We all thought he died—”

“He lived,” the man said. Dean wanted to call him Jimmy, but this was not Jimmy, not any more.

“Who are you?” Dean asked, heart throbbing too close to his throat. “Where’s Jimmy?”

The man’s eyes showed sadness, but the smile stayed curling the corner of his lips. “He perished. Many years ago, only months after he ran away. A tree snapped in the wrong direction as he chopped it down. He was gathering wood to build this house.”

Dean felt a sudden loss. The few seconds of hope he’d felt in learning Jimmy had lived had been squashed at once, and now he remembered crying. Six years old, crying because Jimmy hadn’t come to feed the chickens for three days.

The man who was not Jimmy gestured at the rafters, fingers spread. “I was new to the Earth, I heard his prayers the same moment I arrived. I wanted to heal him, but... alas, I knew nothing about humans. I didn’t know what to fix. I kept him alive for a day, enough to learn everything about him, every memory, but not enough to save him. He didn’t know anything about human bone structure. I didn’t even know there were bones to break. I lost him.” The man gave a mournful sigh, hands rubbing his thighs soothingly. “Since then I learned to mend him, and I’ve aged this body.”

“But he was years older than me,” Dean said in confusion, pressing down the renewed loss he felt for a young man who had long ago been a friend. “It’s been twenty years. Why do we look the same age now?”

“My power slows decay,” the man said. “It’s of great use to the animals here; the injured, the old, the dying and the sick. I keep the forest thriving through the winter. Perhaps—” Realisation lifted his eyes, and he stared at a distant spot behind Dean’s head. “Perhaps it was the forest. The forest turned you.” His eyes snapped to Dean’s, and a bolt of undefined feeling ran through Dean’s gut. “The spirits of the forest were trying to protect me from you. You and your gun.”

“You’re telling me there’s ghosts in this place?” Dean chuckled, unsurprised.

“Not ghosts. _Spirits_.” The man looked at Dean with his keen eyes, leaning forward. “Do you know anything about the native peoples’ beliefs, Dean?”

Dean gave an awkward shrug. Now the man’s eyes were set so intently on him, he became more aware that he was naked. It concerned him that it had taken so long to notice, it was like the deer part of him didn’t care.

“They believe everything has a soul,” the man said, nodding. “The leaves, the rocks, the rain. And it’s true.”

Dean swallowed, unsurprised by that, too. “This planet’s full of weird stuff like that.”

The man hummed in agreement.

Dean huffed, wishing he could be more comfortable. He set a hand down on the tiles to support his weight. He was twisted at the hip – his human hip, that was – and his deer body was prostrate and lying on its side. Dean’s human back was aching tremendously, and he was starting to realise he felt the pressure of a full bladder, not in his human body, but in the deer one. It was a fearsome awareness, because that meant none of his organs were in the right place. Did he have two sets of organs now? Two hearts? Two sets of intestines? Was he meant to eat what deers ate? Would it be cannibalism if he ate venison?

The man made a breathy sound. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dean said, shaking his head, animal ears twitching. There were plenty of reasons to trust this man, but just as many reasons not to. Dean did not trust the supernatural, he killed it. That was his job, that was what he’d always done.

“What else do you want to know, Dean? Is there anything?”

Dean licked his lips, trying his best to ignore his body, pretending it wasn’t his own. “Yeah,” he said, looking at the glass sparkling on the hearth. “Yeah, what’s your name – and what are you?”

“Castiel,” the man said. “I am a god of thunder.”

Dean met his eyes so fast he felt dizzy. “A god?”

Castiel inclined his head. “How else would I have heard a dying man’s prayer? I live here to serve the forest. Study it. Lately... these past few months... I’ve been trying to protect it. But to no avail.”

“People are going missing,” Dean said.

Castiel nodded, lips tightening as he hooked his fingers together at his knees. “I don’t know what’s causing it. It’s like a sickness. A plague. People enter and the forest grows hot around them, fires start. And the people are swallowed up by the fire. You witnessed such an event.”

Dean’s heart sank. “They’re all dead. Burned.”

Castiel let out a long, long breath. “I think so. Yes.” He looked up, but his eyes never rose past Dean’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

Dean swallowed, shaking his head gently. “I never expected to find anyone alive. I see enough to know the chances are always slim.”

“Enough?” Castiel squinted, questioning Dean’s words.

“I do this for a living,” Dean explained, wondering why the hell he was telling this to a self-confessed magical god rather than trying to kill said god. “I— I hunt monsters.”

Castiel’s expression became wary. “You thought I was the monster. You—” His eyes lowered. “Do you still think that?”

“I don’t yet have a definite reason to trust you, if that’s what you mean,” Dean said.

Castiel seemed to understand. He didn’t say anything, though.

Dean blinked as he felt something warm by his back deer legs, and he tried to see, but could barely see his second set of shoulders, let alone his furry underside. The sensation concerned him; the warmth grew, and it felt a little wet. Was he bleeding?

“Um,” Dean said, unsure if he ought to be hailing Castiel’s attention. “I think there’s something...” He twitched his jaw over his shoulder, and Castiel dutifully got up to check.

“Oh,” Castiel said softly.

“What? What is it?” Dean turned this way and that, but still couldn’t see.

Castiel’s hand touched Dean’s deer ribcage, and bristles of surprise ran under Dean’s skin like static. Castiel voice was reassuring, but carried a note of amusement as he said, “I don’t think deer are continent.”

“Continent...” Dean frowned as he tried to figure out what that meant. “Wait— You’re saying I _peed_ myself?!”

“Um. Yes.”

Dean groaned and set his burning face in his hands, shuddering as he felt a cloth being set down beside his belly to soak up his mess. Castiel patted his rump and chuckled, but all Dean could do was screw up his face and try not to cry. This was turning out to be a very, very terrible day.

Then a thought occurred to him. “How long was I asleep?”

“Twenty-six hours,” Castiel replied. “It’s Thursday.”

“I’ve been gone more than a day,” Dean muttered. He hoped Missouri wasn’t too worried. Dean didn’t feel he was in immediate danger, so he supposed there was a chance he could still get out of the forest alive.

Oh. Forget being in danger – he even felt a tiny bit pampered, because now Castiel was washing his legs down with fresh water, dipping a rag into a bucket.

“You healed my burns,” Dean realised aloud. He checked his arms, then ran his hands down his chest, exhaling as he felt no injuries at all. “That’s incredible.”

“You weren’t burned. I prevented the fire from damaging you – but that was the easy part,” Castiel said, still with a smile in his voice. “The hard part is going to be making you human again. I’m afraid I couldn’t do anything about the strain in your leg. No ligament is torn for me to fix. It’s just going to be painful to walk on.”

Dean licked his lips. “Wh... while we’re talking about painful things... Can I sit a different way? This really freakin’ hurts.”

Castiel tossed the rag into the bucket and went to Dean’s front, holding out his hands. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” he asked, heaving as Dean helped himself to his feet.

Dean felt hugely disoriented; with a deer body and a human torso, he was far taller than Castiel – tall enough that he had to grasp the rafters to keep from feeling dizzy. He breathed heavily, shaking.

“Sit,” Castiel said, a hand beckoning Dean back down. “Do you want to stay by the fire? There are floorboards over by the window, I can move the table. Or there’s— There’s my bed?”

Dean shook his head. “Here’s fine,” he said, just as his head started spinning. He sank down, and was grateful for the strong hands which guided him back to the tiles, a few feet away from the damp patch that Castiel hadn’t finished cleaning.

Dean groaned at the relief his back felt as he sat symmetrically, both hands on the tiles, his front deer legs folded neatly where his human groin should have been, and his back legs at his haunches. “Sorry,” he said under his breath. “You know. For the mess. And the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Castiel said, and he sounded surprisingly genuine. “I feel responsible for the deaths in the forest, even though it isn’t anything to do with me. You came in here looking to avenge those who were taken, and now look. Look what happened to you. It’s my responsibility to help you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Water splashed as Castiel got back to wiping the floor. “And, if I’m honest, Dean, I would be happy to help you, regardless of your motives, or the outcome. Because you’re human, and Jimmy held a fond memory in his mind of you. You are of great interest to me.”

“You wanna study me, is that it?” Dean grinned, still leaning over his hands. “You freak.” He huffed a small laugh, then winced in pain. “Lesson one,” he said. “Cervitaurs have two spines. Unless I lie on my side, I don’t think I can relax. This really – fucking – _hurts_.”

Castiel made a sympathetic noise, and Dean turned his head to see him waddle, the bucket handle in his hands, across to the front door next to the dining table. Castiel paused before going outside, one hand on the door handle. “In that case, Dean, I suggest you lie on your side.”

He smirked and went out, and Dean growled at the door when it closed.

He sighed slowly. Then he swallowed. He had been left alone in the hut. He had time to escape.

He wasn’t thinking as he got to his feet, grabbing the rafters in the roof again as they approached too quickly. He was unsteady on his legs, and he took a single step towards the door before he felt his back hoof kick something. He looked down, lifting his hoof, and he discovered the broken half of his antler. It was snapped in the centre, and Dean could only assume a sharp spike remained sticking out of the right side of his head.

He staggered towards the exit, heart pumping adrenaline. He drooped at the waist to unlock the door, grunting, stressed by the fact he no longer had a human pelvis. Perhaps his spine was a single set of vertebrae, with a ninety-degree angle in the middle. It was a nightmarish prospect. He breathed hard as he thrust his way out of the human-sized exit, head down, careful to turn his face so his antlers cleared the space.

He left the door open behind him, since it would be too much effort to close it. He embraced the sky with his arms lifting from his sides for a moment, marvelling at the daylight. Clouds covered the sun, but the greyness was a welcome sight after so much darkness and fire. The sky, he was familiar with. The sky, he could trust.

Dean didn’t know which way to go now. To his left, in a collection of birch trees, he saw a firewood store, where Castiel’s brown-clothed figure bent down to heft some wood into his arms. To his right, Dean saw a pretty little garden, blooming with flowers that were probably out of season. A small painted shape whirred around, poked into the soil like a plant, but it certainly wasn’t a plant. It was a little windmill, each of its arms curved like a petal, all painted a different colour. It spun on its centre and gave the illusion of a rainbow.

Dean kicked himself out of his stupor, and before he could check Castiel’s position, he went right and sprinted away from the hut, picking up speed with every step. He headed into the greenish shadows of the woods, straight into the whispers. Whispering, whispering.

Dean’s front left leg spasmed with pain, and he fell. He shouted as he hit the ground. Twigs had cut his naked skin; he had too many limbs and he didn’t know the right way to fall any more. He felt tangled, dizzy, and his head was pounding with his heartbeat.

He heard footsteps approaching, and he shut his eyes.

“Impressive,” Castiel said. Dean opened his eyes and saw a pair of muddy moccasins. “You are a very sturdy animal, Dean. Quick to learn. Not too quick to trust, though.”

“If you were me,” Dean said, as Castiel’s warm hands straightened him up by his shoulders, “you wouldn’t trust you either.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Castiel said. He gave a hearty push against Dean’s chest, and helped Dean to his feet. Dean rested some of his weight on Castiel’s shoulder, pressing down with his hand. “But I will say, Dean, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be running about with this body. Crossbreeds are all very nice to hear about in stories, but I don’t suppose they’re any good for real life.”

“No,” Dean agreed, limping back to the little hut with Castiel as his support.

The hut was dark brown, and creeping with green vines, some of which were in flower. Its roof slanted down to the left, and at the bottom of the slope there was a tall, cobblestoned chimney that let out a steady twirl of white smoke, and a gutter which led directly into a rainwater barrel. The front door was on the right as they entered, and once inside the gloomy warmth, Dean looked back and to his left, and saw the forest thirty feet beyond the arched window. There was a table under the window, its wooden top scattered with newspaper cuttings of printed pictures, the words discarded. On the right of the hut was a bathtub and a bed, pressed end-to-end up against the wooden wall, and on the hut’s left side was the fireplace, as well as storage shelves stacked with various things.

“You collect bottles,” Dean said, grasping the rafters above him again as he looked down at the shelves. They were lined up with jars and glassware of all shapes and sizes, some with extremely old and peeling labels, some with no labels at all. Dean saw all manner of things inside them: dead insects, dried herbs, fresh vegetables, soil. He even saw one cubic jar with a tiny live frog in it, a miniature terrarium built especially for it.

“I collect things which interest me,” Castiel said, guiding Dean back to the tiles, where he knelt, looking up curiously at the shelves. “Glassware, animals... and books.”

Dean’s eyes followed his gesture to the space on the right of the fireplace, where a candelabra burned with five tiny flames, illuminating a shelf sagging under the weight of hundreds of tightly-stacked books. Loose papers bled from their pages, labels and stickers adorning their spines. Dean saw fat leather tomes, skinny sets of string-bound papers, and everything in between. Any items not arranged in neat lines were arranged haphazardly, not because Castiel seemed an untidy person, but because the shelf was so full he had run out of space.

“Sure puts my reading habits to shame,” Dean mumbled, seeing titles about history, animal breeding, the origins of life, and informative guides to the languages and customs of foreigners. Speaking up so Castiel could hear him, he asked, “Have you ever read one called _The Picture of Dorian Grey_? It’s not really a book, it’s a magazine serial. Imported from England. It’s— Actually, it’s probably not your thing. I, uh, I had it in my bag. I lost it yesterday when I...” Dean trailed off, biting his lower lip as he relived the moment he fired his gun down into the head of an undeserving animal. “You know what, never mind.”

He heard a thump to his left, and turned around to see Castiel at his side, letting go of a snaking leather strap and letting it fall.

“That’s my bag—?!”

Castiel knelt beside him, almost a foot shorter due to not having most of a deer below his torso. His eyes shone with friendly light, and he unbuckled Dean’s bag for him. “I found it on a muddy path,” he said. “The forest spirits led me to it.”

Dean’s hand reached to snatch the bag of sandwiches from inside, and he made a sound of absolute glee as he opened it and saw they were barely stale at all. He grabbed one and crammed it into his mouth, groaning and sinking down as he remembered what it was like to eat food. “Mm— Mmmm,” he said, grabbing another sandwich and putting it into his mouth before he was done with the first. “Mm.”

Castiel watched him, but Dean didn’t pay him any attention. He closed his eyes happily, smiling as he chewed. He could feel his ears perked outwards, swivelling about in satisfaction.

When Dean had finished every last sandwich and pointedly _didn’t_ ask Castiel if he wanted one, he flattened out the brown paper bag and made it look almost as good as new.

“Is this the book you were talking about?” Castiel asked.

Dean looked at what he held, the thick binding of paper resting in his hands. Dean grinned. “Yep. It’s all beat up,” he said, taking it into his hands and pressing it to his bare chest. He could feel the grit stuck on the paper. “I keep reading this. Over and over, you know? I don’t know why I love it so much. Well— I do.” He didn’t want to say the reason.

“I have a book like that,” Castiel said, in complete understanding.

He got up and went to the shelf, lifting a dark blue, leather-bound, somewhat battered specimen from an easy-to-reach turret of other books. He carried it back, and sat down on the hearth facing Dean, his back just out of the way of the fire’s direct heat. His hand caressed the book’s cover, and then he turned it to show Dean.

It didn’t have words on the cover, but a star constellation imprinted in gold.

“Nice,” Dean said.

“It’s about the stars,” Castiel said, holding it on his lap and opening it as gently, the way he might for something a breath away from breaking. The book was in good condition, despite its scuffs, and Dean could only conclude that Castiel wished to preserve every feature of the book exactly how it was, never letting it change in any way. Dean stroked his own magazine with a fond sweep, wishing he’d had the sense to treat it the way Castiel treated his own favourite.

“You like to stargaze, huh,” Dean said, smiling as Castiel showed him an illustration of a black circle, five white stars picked out, inkless.

Castiel sighed, nodding. “They’re so beautiful. The stars. Sometimes I feel lucky, lucky enough to have power that could take me halfway to visit them, if I wanted. But truly, I’m as grounded as you are. I couldn’t go _all_ the way to visit a star. Halfway doesn’t seem worth it. So I find I’m content just to sit and enjoy the part of the universe that is already within reach.”

Dean offered a soft, sympathetic smile, but he didn’t think Castiel even saw.

Then Castiel looked up, and Dean again felt shamed by his nakedness, and about his accident earlier. Castiel’s eyes seemed to see everything, probing him from within. Dean supposed the feeling was discomfort, but he wasn’t convinced it was a negative feeling at all.

“What’s your book about?” Castiel asked.

Dean grinned to cover his embarrassment. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said, shaking his head.

“Please? I want to know,” Castiel said, fingertips reaching to touch Dean’s stomach. Dean eased away from the touch, unsure if he liked the way the contact made his skin run with chills. It was inappropriate to feel chills like that.

“It... It’s a story. A made-up story, about a painting,” Dean said. “And about a man. The painting is actually _of_ the man. Another... another man painted it. And he—”

Dean wanted to stop before he said the rest of his sentence. But, if he was going to explain _why_ he loved the book, he had to be honest. He cared so much about it that it felt wrong to lie.

“What?” Castiel urged, leaning closer.

Dean shrugged his human shoulders, fingers stroking absently below his navel, where his skin grew deer fur, warm on his hand. “The painter thinks Dorian Gray – the man in the painting – is... beautiful.” Dean’s breath fluttered, trying to cast the comparison to his Castiel away. “And in the story... the more bad things Dorian does, the more sins he commits, his painting gets uglier. He corrupts himself, and those around him, and he stays young and beautiful.”

Castiel’s lips sat parted, eyes rapt. He tilted his head slowly, like an owl. “What kinds of bad things does he do?”

Dean’s fingers clenched in his deer fur, and he lowered his head, trying to hide his blush. “Just stuff. Murder and stuff.” His eyes flicked up and he saw Castiel’s head had tilted further. “Maybe you should read it,” Dean mumbled, handing Castiel the magazine without looking at him. “It’s not really what’s _in_ the story I love. It’s... it’s more of what’s, um, implied.” His face was so hot he felt his eyes shining. “I’ve underlined all my favourite bits.”

Castiel had tilted his head so far to the side that he caught Dean’s eye where his head stayed bowed, and Dean grinned suddenly, remembering how Jimmy used to swing upside-down from branches and tell everyone he was a bat. Dean recalled him getting the cane once or twice, just to remind him he was supposed to be human.

Dean’s smile faded at the thought. “No wonder Jimmy ran away,” he said under his breath. He met Castiel’s eye and gave a tiny, unsure frown. “Even if Jimmy was only gone for a few months, and only got that long to be free... I figure he made it worth it. Didn’t he?”

Castiel smiled, inclining his head. “Jimmy was the freest man to ever walk upon the Earth, the day he died. He had fulfilled a lifetime of wishes.”

“Good,” Dean said, nodding. “That’s real good.” He sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I, uh. I kinda hope I get to do that. Before I die, I mean.”

“Run away and build a house in the woods?”

“What? No. No, I mean, fulfill all my wishes. Stuff I desperately hope I’ll get to do someday. I don’t think I will, though – I’m a hunter, I’m about to die practically every second of every day. There’s no time for making wishes or chasing dreams.”

Castiel frowned. “Isn’t being about to die a very good reason to fulfill your wishes? You don’t know how much time is left.”

Dean managed a small smile, but he was too bothered by the words to fully appreciate the encouragement Castiel meant to instil in him. Instead, Dean just felt bogged down by all his wishes, all too mindful of the fact he was trapped in an animal body, deep inside a forest with a god who seemed nice, but no matter what he said, Dean couldn’t help the thought that Castiel had probably killed his old friend. There was still a plague of fire to deal with, not to mention the trickery of the forest itself being a major problem. Even if Dean made it through all of that, and got back to the town, all he could tell those waiting people was that their family members were gone forever.

He had no time to make his wishes come true, no will to pine after things he couldn’t have. Dean’s life was destined for sorrow, and he had accepted that long ago. Things like the story Castiel now flipped through, and sandwiches, those things were precious to him, because they gave him joy in an otherwise joyless existence. Dean clung to the things that made him happy, even after they started to make him miserable instead – his love for his father, for example. He damaged himself with such behaviour, but couldn’t bring himself to care. There was no use wishing to be different. He was created to love, and love he would. Love until his dying day, whether it came today or years in the future.

But he couldn’t help but be aware that he did, in fact, wish for many things. Perhaps he had time to work at them now. Trapped here, going nowhere. Perhaps a few of those wishes might even come true.


	5. Read Aloud

Neither Missouri nor Elsie wanted to say it aloud, but both of them suspected the other wished they’d turned back hours ago. Their eyes stung dry, and their legs shook unsteadily. They picked their way across sodden leaves and held hands to pull each other up slippery banks, but it was clear they were wandering aimlessly, without direction, in possession of no heading whatsoever.

Elsie’s dress had torn. While they had stopped to eat lunch, Missouri had spent the time she could have spent eating fixing the dress instead. She’d joked, “I don’t run a haberdashery shop for nothing. I could sew my way back home. Like that story with the bull in the maze! Rolling out thread so I know my way back. Now, why didn’t I think of that before we came into this godforsaken place?!”

But, when Elsie had kindly reminded her that her shop was really more of a tool shed or a hobby store for the locals, as opposed to a dressmaker’s or anything else fancy, Missouri had sighed.

“It won’t be much of anything if we don’t find what we came in here to find,” she said. “Once it gets around that two more people got swallowed up by the forest, nobody would be crazy enough to stay. Bye-bye, Black Hills.”

That had been mid-afternoon. Now, Missouri looked up through the boughs of the trees and saw that the daylight had turned to clouded dusk, which was no better than the smoke of a snuffed candle for illumination. “We’re gonna have to stop soon,” she said. “No better for all our traipsin’ around than we were when we came in.”

“No, no,” Elsie disagreed. “I think we know more now. There’s no sign of Dean here. But _that_ is something. The absence. No evidence of him being here, no tracks or fire pits. We just need to look somewhere else once it gets light.”

Missouri tutted. “All this no-blinking nonsense is gonna be worth nothing at all, once we lay ourselves down to sleep. We’ll end up on the same path Dean told us about, mushrooms poppin’ up outta nowhere, no turns this way or that. The one we entered by was nothin’ like that. Maybe we should’ve taken the same entrance Dean used, maybe that was our mistake.”

Elsie stopped walking. She had tired lines under her eyes, and she walked with a slouch; her back must be aching as much as Missouri’s. “Then we should blink now. I can’t go any further, not today.”

Missouri lowered her head, feeling disappointment. Grief, too. It had been hours, but she’d clung to the hope of finding Dean today, even fantasised about bumping into him and discovering he was alive and well, eager to share the dinner he’d cooked on a fire. That hope had been dashed; the gloom had become too dense for human eyes, and Missouri could barely see the next set of tree trunks, let alone a safe direction to walk.

“Here,” she said, pulling Elsie by the hand to the base of a tree. Like all the others around them, it was a pine tree: very tall, very strong, and lacking the tangles of roots that many other trees had. Its trunk shot down straight into the damp ground, and the result was that Elsie and Missouri had no protection at all. They could lean up against the trunk to sleep, but if cold winds came, they would freeze steadily, and if coyotes or bears came, they had nowhere to hide.

Pausing with a hand on the tree trunk, Elsie took Missouri’s hand and said to her. “We should blink together. I don’t want one of us to vanish and leave the other alone.”

“On three then,” Missouri nodded. “May the Lord guide us safe.”

“One,” Elsie said breathlessly. Her hand was sweating cold, fingers wriggling to get a better grip on Missouri’s hand. “Two.”

Missouri’s stomach clenched in her worry. She had never seen the magical path, but she believed with all her heart she would be taken there when she closed her eyes. She only hoped it would be a safe place, like Dean said it was.

Elsie took a deep breath, and Missouri saw the whites of her eyes glint blue in the very last of the light. She nodded, and Elsie nodded back. “Three.”

Missouri closed her eyes, and felt no change at all. Frowning with her eyes still closed, she called for Elsie. “You okay, child?”

“Yes,” Elsie said, voice breathy. “Missouri, open your eyes.”

Missouri peered out, and gasped as she saw they had been moved to somewhere completely different. She heard a whisper, a gentle whisper – the sound of the forest soothing them. The path stretched in hollow darkness to Missouri’s right, littered with spruce leaves, and it was the same to the left.

She blinked again, feeling a burn in her tired eyes. Slowly, she let Elsie’s hand go, and they flexed their fingers, meeting each other’s gaze.

They laughed, in relief, and in awe of the power around them.

Missouri became aware of an orange light showing the edges of Elsie’s disarranged plait. Elsie noticed too, and her eyes shot away.

“What is it?” Missouri asked, watching Elsie scurry away a few steps.

“A lamp,” Elsie said, utter bewilderment in her voice. She bent at the waist, then stood up and turned around, lifting a weight in her hand. She showed Missouri: it was a small oil lamp, already lit, swinging from its handle.

“No,” Missouri said carefully. “No... it can’t be...”

“Can’t be what?” Elsie came forward, smiling. She seemed joyous to have discovered the magic of this forest, but clearly she didn’t understand why Missouri felt blood draining from her face.

“That was the same damn lamp I put into Dean’s pack,” she said, her throat becoming tight. “He came back to the outpost Tuesday afternoon and he’d lost his bag. The one I gave him for Wednesday... that lamp was inside it. I gave him matches and extra oil.” She poked an accusing finger at the lamp, which glowed innocently. “That’s Dean’s lamp.”

Elsie lowered the lamp ever so slowly, her smile wiped away. “The forest stole it from him?”

“Maybe the forest thought he didn’t need it,” Missouri said bitterly, stalking away and dumping her pack into a small expanse of grass at the side of the path. She crouched and dug out her sleeping mat from her bag, shaking her head. “Maybe the dead don’t need light.”

“He is not dead,” Elsie said. “He’s not, don’t you let yourself believe that. You said it yourself, you dreamed of fire and deer, not death.”

“Death follows fire,” Missouri said, worry making her stomach knot up as she sat herself down on her sleeping mat, hands together while she watched Elsie roll her mat out too. “And that fire was around Dean’s throat.”

Elsie wore a mask of concern as she sat facing Missouri, arms wrapped around her knees. “You’re sure the deer was Dean?”

“Yes.”

“Deer in dreams represent wildness, grace and beauty. Spiritual elegance.”

“Compassion,” Missouri added. “Kindness. The deer was Dean, I know it.”

Elsie took a breath, like she wanted to say something else. But she didn’t speak, just turned her eyes away.

“What is it?” Missouri asked.

Elsie took another breath and angled her face to Missouri, but didn’t raise her eyes from the ground. “When you sent me with food and clothes to Dean’s room, I spoke with him.”

“Teresa—”

“Not about my sister, about you.”

“Oh?” Missouri lifted her eyebrows in intrigue.

“Dean told me... you taught him embroidery.”

“Ah, yes,” Missouri said happily. “He was mighty good at it. He’s got an eye for the delicate, that boy.”

Elsie shifted, and Missouri’s focus set back on her, wondering what was going through her mind. The faded scars on Elsie’s face were highlighted by the light, but she looked beautiful regardless. After a number of seconds, she spoke again. “Delicate,” she said. “Delicate like a woman?”

Missouri smiled, and it was a sly smile. She saw what Elsie was getting at, now. “Exactly that way, yes.”

Elsie nodded, turning her face down, almost nervously. “Deer can symbolise the feminine within us. You know Dean better than I do, but I— I think I can understand.”

Missouri reached a hand over to touch Elsie’s shoulder. The designed rise on her dress’ shoulder crumpled under the grip, but that left Missouri able to feel Elsie’s warmth though the cloth. Elsie reached to hold Missouri’s hand there, letting out a breath.

“You mustn’t be afraid,” Missouri said, giving Elsie a soft shake. “Whether we return with Teresa and Dean, or without them, you mustn’t be afraid of seeking happiness. One loss shouldn’t mean losing somethin’ you haven’t yet gained.”

Elsie swallowed hard. “You mean Charlie, don’t you.”

Missouri gave her a smile, even though she wasn’t looking. “Yeah, child. I mean Charlie.”

Elsie covered her eyes with a hand, the fingers of her other hand slipping away from Missouri.

There were probably hundreds of things Elsie wanted to say, but Missouri didn’t hear a single one of them. She kept her hand on Elsie’s shoulder until Elsie nodded, then curled away to lie down.

Missouri lay down too, close enough to Elsie to share her heat, not close enough that she touched her. “Goodnight, Elsie.”

“Goodnight.”

They left the lamp burning. The thick tree branches over them were outlined with its light, and despite the stillness, and the complete silence, the glow was soothing. Missouri considered their surroundings for a long time, and listened to the peacefulness of their sanctuary. They were disturbed by nothing, not even a quiet, curious flutter of a moth around the lamp. Missouri and Elsie could have been the only two beings alive in the world.

There came a forest whisper, then silence again.

Dean was draped in one of Castiel’s wool blankets, hunched over a small wooden table six feet away from the fire. His deer legs knelt on the floorboards; the wood was less hard on his joints than the tiles. His bare elbows rested on the table, his left hand holding down a piece of paper, his right grasping a pen made out of pinewood. At intervals, he dipped the nib into brown ink made of something Dean preferred not to ask about.

“Do you write every day?” Castiel asked, from where he sat cross-legged on his couch. It wasn’t really a couch, it was a sagging birchwood frame layered with feather-filled cloth lumps, which could probably be called cushions, although that was a stretch. The arrangement looked comfortable, but Dean, being an overlarge, overheavy cervitaur, could not test the theory.

“Every few days, yeah,” Dean said distractedly, still scrawling. He shook the pen after every five words or so; no matter how often he filled the nib, the ink was stubborn. He missed his own pen. It should have been in his bag along with his copy of _Dorian Gray_ , but he’d searched the whole thing and his pen hadn’t turned up. He was putting off upending the bag across the floor, because if he did that, it might indicate he intended to stay.

He insisted to himself that he had no intention of staying. It was cruel happenstance that kept him here. Staying here for a handful of days had everything to do with his sprained leg, his unfortunate subsistence as a liminal being, and his desire to find the perpetrator of the forest’s deaths, and nothing whatsoever to do with the walnut soup Castiel made, the warm fire, or the way Dean didn’t really mind the way the other man reached to touch Dean at the slightest variance in his composure.

Castiel eventually rustled his book pages, and Dean heard him take a breath to speak. “Does Sam write back?”

“Um. Yeah. Less often, but yeah,” Dean said. Then he frowned and drew a line through where he’d written down ‘ _less often_ ’ instead of ‘ _letters, and_ ’.

Dean heard a sound, and he turned his chin over his shoulder to see Castiel had moved to kneel just behind him, on his left. Castiel looked back curiously.

“Sam has trouble finding me, to post things to me,” Dean explained. “I let him know when I’ll be in one place for more than a week, and that’s when he’ll send a bunch of letters at once. It’ll take _days_ for one letter to get from here to California.”

He looked back to his paper, signed his name, then set the pen down with the nib pointed away from him. “That is,” he went on, “if I can even get out of the forest to post this one. Last time I wrote was Tuesday. Told him I went into the forest and made it back out, but since then, nothin’.”

Castiel was quiet, and when Dean peered over his shoulder at him, Castiel leaned closer and spread his fingers against the dip of Dean’s back. His eyes were on the letter, and Dean felt a little uncomfortable. He reached to fold the paper down, inching away from Castiel’s touch.

“Apologies,” Castiel said, slinking back to a more appropriate distance. His voice was subdued; his apology had sounded almost saddened. Dean began to regret pulling away – but then he remembered that no god had _any_ right to read what he wrote to his brother, regardless of how pleasant they were about washing out Dean’s bedpan.

Castiel sat at the edge of his couch, hands clasped between his knees. His eyes rested on Dean, and when Dean blinked questioningly, Castiel’s lips parted.

“What if I could take it to the outpost for you?” Castiel said.

Dean frowned. “How?”

“I can fly,” Castiel replied. “I’ve gone there before, in animal form.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah? Well, people have noticed. First day I arrived, they told me you looked like a deer.”

Castiel shrugged and looked at the floor. “The deer is my favourite. I never stay long. Sometimes I just like to see people. They’re— _You_ are... fascinating.” His eyes met Dean’s, something steadfast in his expression. “I can carry your letter to the town and put it somewhere the postal workers will find it.”

“You’d do that for me?” Dean huffed. “How do I know you wouldn’t shred it the moment you get out of here?”

Castiel had the good sense to look offended. “You think I would cut you off from your family like that? What kind of savage do you think I am?!”

Dean turned his eyes to his letter, the edge of which he worried with his thumb. He licked his lips, flicking open the letter to see one particular line he’d written. “Honestly? I don’t know what kind of _anything_ you are yet.”

Castiel sighed. “What if I were to promise?”

“In my experience, any promise made by something supernatural in exchange for anything, that’s called a deal. Making a deal with magicfolk ain’t the best course of action, not in most cases. Demons want souls. Other monsters, they want hearts. Bones. Eyeballs, you name it.”

“What if I wanted—”

Dean looked at Castiel quickly, surprised to see him posed in a way that belittled him; his shoulders were slumped, his face lowered, hands clutched in his lap.

“Want what?” Dean prompted, hating that he wanted to know.

Castiel looked up, a tentative squint narrowing one eye. “If you could read your letter to me. Tell me what it says? You won’t let me see it, but I... I would like to know what sort of thing you tell your kin.”

Dean smirked. “You got siblings?”

Castiel turned his eyes down and away, taking a breath. “I did. Not any more.”

Dean’s smirk vanished. He dared not ask what happened to those siblings.

He spread his hand over the letter, easing it closer to himself. “If I read this out... you’ll post it?”

Castiel scooted closer, eagerness brightening his eyes. “I will. It would be my honour.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile at the man’s enthusiasm. If it weren’t for the knowledge that he was not a man at all, but something endowed with power undoubtedly beyond Dean’s current comprehension, Dean might actually consider liking the guy.

“Fine, then. All right,” Dean said, taking up the paper between both hands, flapping it straight and clearing his throat.

“ _Friday, the 18th of September, 1890_ ,” Dean began. “ _Hey, Sammy! You’ll never guess where I am. I’m in a little hut in the middle of Black Hills Forest, with Jimmy. You probably don’t remember Jimmy, you were only two when he went missing._ ”

“Sam must be twenty-two now,” Castiel said thoughtfully.

Dean nodded. “ _Except he’s not Jimmy any more, he’s a ‘vessel’ for a god. Yes, you read that right, a GOD. His name’s Castiel. He looks my age, and he can turn into all sorts of animals. And they glow. If it wasn’t—_ ” Dean paused, swallowed, then took a breath, “ _If it wasn’t scary as fuck, it might actually be impressive._ ”

Castiel chuckled, and Dean was distracted by the sound for a moment; it was warm, tumbling, the way Jimmy’s laugh used to be. But it wasn’t loud like Jimmy’s laugh, it was quiet like the whispers of the forest. There was a serenity about Castiel that Dean found enticing.

Dean shook his head, imagining those distracting vines of thought falling away from his antlers. “ _I—_ ”

Dean paused again, blinking as he second-guessed reading this line aloud. It was the one he’d scrutinised before. Castiel’s exclamation echoed in his head: _What kind of savage do you think I am?!_

Finally, he swallowed and pressed on. “ _I don’t think I can trust Castiel,_ ” he read. He tried not to look at Castiel as he said it, but he sensed a new tension in the single room of the hut. Half of that tension originated from himself. “ _On the one hand, he saved me twice from a giant hand of fire that was chasing us; he pushed me out of the way the first time, and stomped on it until it moved away the second time. Actually, three times, he called a storm right after, and it rained on the fire until we were saved, and then—_ ”

Dean thumbed at his temple, shamed by his run-on sentences. They were easier to write than to read aloud. “ _Then he saved me again when I passed out. I was sure I was burned, and he healed those welts right up like they were nothing, but then he said he stopped me from being burned in the first place. I’ve never met a monster that did nice things without wanting payment. He hasn’t asked for anything yet though. He’s been cooking for me too. For someone who doesn’t eat except for fun (or so he says), he makes damn good soup._ ”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said. Dean didn’t look up, just gave a grunt of acknowledgement and carried on.

“ _But on the other hand... I can’t be sure he isn’t lying about Jimmy, that he didn’t kill him to take his body._ ”

Castiel inhaled sharply, but said nothing. The pressure of the tension in the room seemed to double, and despite the blanket over Dean’s torso, he felt cold steal over him.

“ _He says—_ ” Dean swallowed hard, holding a hand to his head so he couldn’t see Castiel. “ _He says that the disappearances in the forest have nothing to do with him. That he feels bad about them and wants to help me. But I just don’t know what to think. He hasn’t tried to kill me yet, so that’s good._ ”

“You haven’t mentioned the fact I turned you into a cervitaur,” Castiel said, with a chill in his voice that caused the temperature in the room to drop, literally.

Dean lowered his hand and bravely swivelled his face towards Castiel. He looked up, meeting the eyes of the god perched on the couch. Castiel just looked like a very hurt human man, there was nothing overtly god-like about him at all.

“I’m just getting to that,” Dean said, steadily. His eyes flicked down, then back up. “You’re the one who wanted to know what I think.”

“I know that,” Castiel said, with more defeat in him than sourness. He looked away, and the temperature in the room returned to a comfortable, hearth-simmering warmth. “I never expected you to trust me. But it’s a surprise that your distrust is upsetting to me. I didn’t expect to care.”

“Well, hey,” Dean said lightly, offering a smile when Castiel glanced his way. “Well-made soup never stopped a poison from doing its job, you know? How do I know your niceness doesn’t cover up something deadly?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, holding Dean’s gaze this time. “You sound as if you’re talking from experience.”

Dean’s breath suddenly caught in his throat, because he hadn’t even realised how true the statement was until he’d heard it from Castiel’s lips. Dean’s hands weakened and he rested them down on the table, struggling to find words to deflect this conversation.

“...Dean?”

“Nothing,” Dean huffed. “It’s nothing.” He heard too much stress on his words. “Just... You’re right. I am... talking from experience.” He was trembling, not out of fear but something deeper, something primal and childish and long-suffering. His breath rushed into him in uneven shakes, and he failed to look back at Castiel.

“Family don’t end with blood,” Dean said, at last. “Someone told me that once, someone who cared. But since then I realised, maybe it should. Maybe family _should_ end with blood, when blood is shed.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said. He said it unsurely, like he wasn’t convinced he was allowed to ask.

“The phrase means people who aren’t related by blood can still be family,” Dean clarified. “All I’m saying is, maybe blood shouldn’t be _family_ , that’s all. Not all the time.”

“I still... Dean, I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Someone hurt me, okay,” Dean bit out, rolling his eyes away so he didn’t have to see who he was speaking to. “Someone I’m related to. They were nice, and nice, and nice, and then they weren’t. And I went on trusting them and letting them do what they did because I thought they were being nice. And they weren’t. They really— They _really_ weren’t.”

He tried to swallow but couldn’t, it clamped tight in his throat. Prickles of sweat beaded across his skin, ice-cold. His breath felt too small, hands too big and clumsy. The world felt very microscopic. Where were his eyes?

Black—

“Dean. Dean, look at me. Dean.”

Dean’s eyes opened wide and looked into blue, seeing the calmness of the ocean. Castiel’s hands were on his cheeks, his body kneeling just to the side of the little table. Dean took a breath, and it felt like his first ever.

“Good,” Castiel nodded. “Good, you’re okay. I was worried.”

Dean licked his lips, raising a hand to wipe sweat from his upper lip. He’d grown stubble since he’d been in this hut, and it was long enough that it was starting to feel soft. He released another breath, feeling the dread seeping away. Castiel’s hands moved to grip his shoulders, which felt more grounding than Dean would ever have expected.

“It was my father,” Dean confessed. The words came easily now, the worst of the moment was over. His gaze rested on the letter he’d written to Sam. “Me and Sam’s father.”

Castiel didn’t say anything, just stayed there, earthing Dean.

When Dean nodded and brushed Castiel away, Castiel stood and went back to the couch. Dean didn’t feel any shame over what had just happened. Panic attacks had long been a part of his life; it was blessed mercy that Castiel didn’t react to them the same way his father John did. “He’d cause them,” Dean said aloud. “He’d make me panic, then get angry because I couldn’t control myself, and I’d panic more and he’d hit me for it.”

“A vicious circle,” Castiel said. “I’m sorry.”

“I would end up...” Dean took a breath and censored the words he couldn’t bear to say. “Hurt. He hurt me bad, that’s all. Not always physical, either. But – now it’s over,” he said, lifting his head. “I haven’t seen him in years. God, I’m glad. Relieved. Every day I’m relieved.”

There was a part of him that still loved John. He knew that part was wrong, but that part wanted to forgive, and have his Papa back, to be nice, and nice, and nice. Forgiveness was meant to be a good thing. But the rest of Dean’s being was adamant that forgiveness was the last thing John deserved. Dean hated the conflict inside him.

Dean cleared his throat and looked back to the paper, smoothing its new crumples flat with his palm. “Point is,” he said, “I don’t trust easy any more. Don’t take it hard.”

“I won’t,” Castiel said. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You didn’t have to tell me any of that, you know. I can understand a lack of trust.”

“No, but— Thanks,” Dean said hastily. “You listened. I guess there is a bit of me that trusts you enough to tell you this shit, so now you know.”

A truth sat boxed in his mind, and he peeled back its wrapping all at once, and the truth spoke clearly in his own voice: _Castiel is only the third person you’ve told about this._

He brushed the truth away, fingers combing through his hair. He grazed his broken antler as he did, and sighed.

“The letter’s almost over. I crammed the bit about me being a deer right at the end. _By the way, I’m also stuck as a half-deer. Happened when I first met Cas, when he was a deer too. I thought it was him that did it, but it could just as easily have been the forest spirits. But that’s why I haven’t gone back to see Missouri yet. I have deer legs, one of which is sprained to hell._ ”

“Cas?” came Castiel’s low voice.

“What?”

“You wrote ‘Cas’,” Castiel said. “‘ _When I first met Cas_ ’.”

Dean scoured the page, and his eyebrows raised in surprise when he found the single example. “Oh,” he said. “That— Must’ve been trying to save space,” he said. It felt like a lie, despite not knowing the real reason for the shortened name.

“I like it,” Castiel said. He wore a smile as he tilted his head. “Cas.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well. Don’t go expecting me to call you that.”

Castiel’s neck straightened. “Why not? It sounds friendly.”

“Exactly. Might dupe myself into thinking you’re not evil after all.” He said it, but he said it with a smile. He couldn’t resist it any more, he rather liked the odd magical creature sitting there with his hands in his lap.

Castiel – _Cas_ – wore a small smile. “I will endeavour to prove myself to you,” he said. “Although there can’t be much to do beyond feeding you and cleaning up your messes.”

Dean blushed, glaring down at his letter. “Not my fault I’m a deer.”

“No.”

Dean sighed, then lifted the paper to read the final few lines. “ _Hope you’re getting all my letters, and you’re keeping well. I’ll write soon, so long as I don’t have to ration my paper. Best wishes. Dean._ ”

“Is that the end?” Castiel craned forward, trying to see over Dean’s shoulder, but Dean angled the paper away in an admittedly puerile manner.

“Yeah, that’s the end,” Dean said, tugging his blanket closer to his shoulders. “Do you have any sealing wax?”

Castiel tilted his head.

“Um, it’s— It’s like a small candle,” Dean said, illustrating a square shape with his fingers. “I can use a regular candle.”

“What’s it for?”

“Keeping letters shut. You burn the wick and drip the wax on the paper, and fold the paper closed. So nobody can read the letter when it’s posted. Sam cuts it open at the other end.”

Castiel put his hands on his knees. “Interesting.” He stood up, then crossed the room in his bare feet. Dean caught his scent riding on the eddy of air as he passed; he smelled like fallen leaves and pine sap, which was unsurprising. Castiel plucked a candle from the holder by the bookshelf, then brought it, still burning, to Dean.

Dean left him standing there without taking it, because he needed a moment to fold the paper first. He did it the way Missouri had taught him: inwards at the sides by an inch, followed by the top and bottom by an inch-and-a-half, and lastly, he folded it across the middle. He unfolded that last fold, then reached for the candle, fingertips grazing Castiel’s warmer skin as he took it. He turned the candle at an angle, letting the creamy-white wax drool all at once onto the bottom inward fold. He let it drip a few more times, to create a circular pool of fast-cooling wax.

Castiel took the candle when Dean nudged it back in his direction. Castiel then watched as Dean folded the top half of the letter down to the bottom half, then pressed the seal until it stuck.

“Perfect,” Dean said to himself, reaching for the wooden pen again.

Castiel went to return the candle to its holder before the wax dripped onto his hand.

Dean wrote Sam’s name and university address on the letter’s front. He could see the bleed of the ink coming through from the inside, but that was due to unfamiliar ink as opposed to thin paper; the paper was thick enough to reassure Dean it wouldn’t rip in transit.

“There, done,” Dean said, offering Castiel the completed letter between his fingers, held like a cigarette. “Be a good deity and go post this for me, would you?” He gave him a winning smile, but the effect was probably ruined by his uneven antlers and sagging blanket.

Castiel raised one of his dark eyebrows. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘pushing one’s luck’?”

Dean simpered and pressed the letter into Castiel’s palm. “Just... please? If you get there before the train leaves, the letter won’t be sitting there for an extra day. Oh, you gotta pay. There’s some money in my bag—”

“No need,” Castiel said, easing Dean back to the floorboards with his wide hand on his shoulder. He neatened Dean’s blanket too, which was entirely unnecessary.

“Whadd’ya mean, no need?”

Castiel made his way to his shelf of trinkets, and stuck his hand inside a honey pot. Dean heard jingling. “Fifteen cents to post to California.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Cas— That’s not fair, you can’t do that!”

“Haven’t I made myself clear, Dean?” Castiel said, turning around, shoving a handful of coins into a small leather purse with dangling drawstrings. “Anything that happens in this forest, I feel responsible for it. If innocent people are burned in an unexplained supernatural fire, I feel like I started the fire. If the forest spirits decide they want to protect people by trapping them inside, then I feel I locked them in myself. If the spirits turn my would-be assassin into a grass-eater, I feel I should make up for it with soup; it’s the best middle ground I can think of.” He paused, breathing hard, a pointed pain on his face. “And if a tree falls on a man named Jimmy and kills him, I feel like I was the one who killed him. Wasn’t that what you accused me of? It doesn’t matter that it’s not true, I still worry that it is.”

Dean swallowed. He shrugged with his face, accepting. Apologising, maybe.

“I am paying for your letter, and that’s the end of it. I’m going out now,” Castiel said, putting the purse down on the table, on top of the letter. “Don’t leave this hut unless you’re in danger. You’ll only get yourself lost or hurt. I know you’re wounded, you don’t have to pretend you’re fine. You don’t have anything to prove, not to me. Do you understand me, Dean?”

Dean looked up, and frowned as he saw Castiel undoing his shirt, waistcoat already gone. “What’re you doing?”

Castiel glanced over at him. “Did you think birds wore clothes?”

Dean’s mouth fell open, and he made an effort to close it before parted his lips and said, “Oh.”

He attempted to keep his eyes averted when Castiel removed his trousers, then his underwear. Lowered eyes couldn’t keep Dean from watching out of the corner of his eye, however: Castiel’s silhouette folded up his clothes and left them on the back of the dining chair.

Dean considered how blameless he would be if he accidentally turned his head and saw Castiel’s buttocks. The mere awareness of the desire made his cheeks heat like they’d been stung; he gulped and looked further away, eyes rising to watch the animal skeletons twirl on their weight-bearing threads. He recognised an opossum, a squirrel, and a bat.

“I should be back within the hour,” Castiel said. Dean heard the letter being picked up, then the purse. “Stay... safe.”

Dean managed to smile at the rafters before he heard the door shut. His head whipped around, and he gasped as he saw Castiel’s bare torso through the window. He put the letter in his mouth, and bent at the waist, dropping out of view – then he stood back up, and the purse wasn’t in his hands any more.

Dean let out a noise of unequivocal awe as he watched Castiel spread his arms, fingers breeding feathers, which extended along his entire arm in a single second, and all at once, his body was the size of the opossum, taking flight with the letter in his beak and the purse dangling from his talons. He’d become a glowing silver eagle, his beak and wings tipped with black.

“Oh, you beauty,” Dean whispered, feeling burdened by his attraction. “Why couldn’t you just be a witch? Why did you have to be a god too?”

He watched the eagle soar up beyond the clearing, now a V-shape with his massive wings spread. Castiel was heading straight ahead from the front of the hut, and Dean assumed that meant the outpost was in that direction. He noted that for later, when... _if_ he attempted another escape.

He sighed and looked down at his lap, which wasn’t a lap at all, but a pair of kneeling furry legs. He chuckled to himself, then sighed. “I am _so_ done for.”


	6. Encounter at the Pool

Castiel swooped down over the town, riding the updrafts of smoky air. It was colder here than in the forest. The outpost extended along one single street with buildings on either side, thus creating a valley. Wind swept through it, and the late season forced gusts from an otherwise uncommon direction. The smoke stung Castiel’s eyes, but it was gone in a moment.

He twirled like a vulture as he lowered himself down, spinning a screwtop descent.

The purse in his talons blustered about less and less the closer he got to the ground, and he landed amongst grit and manure, feeling small. The post office loomed in lacquered wood and glass, the flowerbeds under its windows filled with nothing but dead petunias that sagged over the side.

Castiel loosened the purse ties from his talons with his beak, leaving the letter on the ground for a moment. He weighed the letter down with the purse, and transformed himself into a tomcat. He looked around quickly to see if anyone noticed, but the street was clear. The people here were depressed, cold, and lonely, and it didn’t surprise him that so few of them wanted to go for a mid-morning stroll.

Castiel picked up the letter and the purse in his fangs, clamped down by his top lip. He then stood on the front mat outside the post office and rose up on his hind legs, pushing hard on the door with his front paws. It didn’t budge; the handle must have been clicked shut.

He checked the street again, both ways. Nobody around.

He transformed into a human, instantly feeling the cold nip at his naked skin. His saliva wet the letter but he only needed a second – he turned the door handle, then stepped into the deserted post office. A bell tinkled above him. He shut the door, then became a cat again.

He trotted over to the postmistress’ cubby, leaping up onto the desk. After a moment of thought, he decided it would be safest to leave the letter and the money, then depart, in the hope the postmistress would know what to do with them when she found them.

Castiel emptied the purse across the desk, and had to crawl around afterwards to reassemble the coins which had rolled away. He pawed them until they were piled in formation on top of Dean’s letter.

“Cat!” came a startled cry.

Castiel looked to his right; his back arched and his fur stood on end as the postmistress emerged from the sorting room, her mousy hair tied in a bun, hands flapping either side of her long dress. “Shoo, cat!” the woman said sharply, snatching a broom from beside a filing cabinet. “Go on, shoo!”

Castiel bounced up over the desk and landed back on the floor, tail swinging in alarm. The postmistress followed him around the desk. Castiel was completely prepared to act like a lost cat and wait hopefully for her to open the door, except he never got that option. He turned his head back to the woman, and chills ran down his spine as he saw she had swapped the broom for a shotgun when he hadn’t been watching.

“I’ve had my eye on you,” she said, a dangerous twang in his words. “I’ve seen you coming down here and watching us, glowing like you do.”

_I mean you no harm,_ Castiel said, except it came out as, “ _Meow._ ”

The postmistress was advancing, one eye closed behind her spectacles as she forced Castiel to back up against the door. The twin barrels of the shotgun were aimed at his face; there was no chance of a misfire once she pulled the trigger.

Fear alone made Castiel transform again; it was too difficult to maintain his visage under stress. Flat expanses of skin appeared where once was silver fur, and his hard panting breaths became vocal. “Please,” he whispered, getting to his feet, hands held out to the woman as shock froze her still. “Please, I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve never hurt you, it wasn’t me.”

The woman raised the shotgun to his face.

Castiel turned around and grabbed the door handle, opened the door and ran naked into the street. He heard the hard _BANG!_ of the gun, and a scatter of dust scratched at his ankle. He leapt away, hands held in front of him in a useless barrier. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” he shouted, retreating in lizard-like zigzags, narrowly escaping a new scar made in the road as the woman fired at him again.

While the postmistress reloaded the gun, Castiel made an effort to calm himself, slowing his thumping heart, and he found enough quiet in his panic that he grew wings from his arms. But he couldn’t transform his human body too, so his take-off was clumsy, bones and muscle proving too heavy to lift. He broke out in a sweat when he was only five feet from the ground, and buckshot whizzed past his neck a second later. He flapped and flapped until he cleared the rooftops, and took cover behind a chimney.

How did Icarus ever fly with wings like these?

He collapsed to a crouch with his forehead against smoke-warm terracotta, breathing hard. The chimney shifted then jarred; it was loose on its setting, and now it was stuck at an angle.

Castiel’s feathers shrivelled and moulted away like the leaves of those petunias, and soon, he was in human form again.

He heard shouts in the cold: the postmistress was calling to other people. They replied; the whole outpost had heard the gunshots. 

Castiel cackled under his breath, a smile bursting out of him. “I only wanted to post a letter,” he said, as the smile turned to a heartbroken gape. His eyes opened, and he stared at the mossy roof slats with sadness pulling his heart down.

It took him several minutes to recover, but he knew he had to be quick or someone would climb up on the roof and shoot at him again. He was shivering with cold; going around buck-naked on a day his rainwater barrel had frozen over was not ideal.

He took a deep breath, and became a sparrow. Small, so there was less to see, and less of a target for a lead pellet to hit.

He took off and flew towards the forest, hearing the alarmed conversations of the townsfolk rising with the smoke.

“Are you ready?” Missouri asked, holding out her hand to Elsie. It was late in the morning, and both of them had overslept. Oddly, the forest of illusion was not only quiet, but warm. If it weren’t for Missouri’s endless worry about Dean, she might have slept well.

“Yes, I’m ready,” Elsie said, finally taking Missouri’s hand. Her bag was secure now, and Dean’s lantern dangled from one side of it, extinguished until they would need it again.

“All right.” Missouri shut her eyes, blotting out the tunnel of the forest. It was peaceful and motionless, the way a painting was – and in the same way, something about it just didn’t feel real. “Shut your eyes real tight now, then we’ll open them and start walking.”

They stood quietly for a while, letting their eyes rest. It was going to be another long day.

Eventually they started walking, not blinking, following the path that appeared in front of them and changed its features behind them. They went on holding hands in case they got separated somehow – it seemed likely, in a place that rearranged itself if it was looked at the wrong way.

It took nearly fifteen minutes before they saw their first turning, and with a shared smile of success, they took the turning the forest insisted they shouldn’t take.

Two more minutes passed, and they came to a clearing.

Missouri narrowed her eyes. “Is it just me, or do you see a light?”

“Daylight?” Elsie said, gesturing their joined hands up towards the sky. Grey light poured between leafy silhouettes, but that was not what Missouri meant.

“Through there,” she said, pointing to a shimmer on a tree trunk. “Like water.”

“We haven’t found water before, my flask is almost empty,” Elsie said in a rush, letting go of Missouri’s hand and scurrying forward a few steps, then patiently waiting until Missouri caught up. Missouri was slower, being older and fatter and less inclined to scurry about.

They walked with growing interest as they approached the light, which seemed to originate from more than a single point.

“I wonder what it is,” Elsie said, pressing her hand to a tree as she passed. “Do you think it’s dangerous?”

“Unless it’s poisoned water, I got no clue,” Missouri remarked, making her way around a large spruce tree. Spruce trees weren’t that different from pine trees; their roots were hidden, and they showered pale green needles across the ground almost constantly. It gave the forest a calming ambience, and a recognisable smell, but their spines tickled skin when brushed past too closely. Christmas trees, that was what they were.

Elsie gasped suddenly, and Missouri looked over at her, seeing Elsie’s face all lit up with silver.

Elsie ran around a tree, and Missouri followed. She gasped too when she saw where Elsie had gone: she was kneeling beside a tree trunk with gnarled roots, her hands on Dean’s bag.

“That’s— That’s the one I gave him,” Missouri said, falling to her knees beside her friend. Elsie had opened the bag to discover a set of uneaten sandwiches, and all of the replacement tools and weapons Missouri had provided once Dean had lost his first bag.

“Where is he now, though?” Elsie said breathily.

“That boy wouldn’t leave a crumb behind if he could help it,” Missouri said, oncoming grief tapering her words to a whisper. “He must’ve been taken. Snatched right off his feet.”

“Here!” Elsie stood up and pointed at a scuff in the leaves. “And there!” She pointed ahead, her face illuminated with silver again. Missouri got to her feet with the bag in her hands and followed Elsie around the tree.

Elsie stood in mud beside a pond, her hands reaching to retrieve Dean’s gun from the dark pond silt. A scattering of Dean’s ripped clothes rested in the same place.

Missouri noted in the back of her mind that the pond was glowing, the source of the silver light – but all she was conscious of was how much that gun meant to Dean, how often would clean it from the inside out, how unlikely he was to drop it into the mud and leave it there.

Elsie held the gun like it was about to break. She looked up with questions and pain in her eyes, which reflected Missouri’s feelings well. Missouri set a hand over the gun and grasped it, but didn’t take it.

Through the gun, she observed the past: its barrel had been aimed at a silver light, then the gun had been dropped. It had fired by mistake. Then it was left abandoned.

“Oh, Dean,” she said. “What in God’s name have you gotten into?”

“Here too,” Elsie said, giving Missouri the gun and moving away a few steps, pointing to an obvious disturbance in the mud. Bootprints made it halfway to the water’s edge, then there was the imprint of limbs pressed to the ground. A hand, in one place.

And then... There were deer tracks leading away. Another set of tracks followed.

“My God,” Missouri said.

Did she believe it? Yes.

Did she understand? Not at all.

A whisper came from on high, a stormy rush of voices, breath between leaves. Missouri looked up with tears in her eyes, and a shiver crept over her skin, only partly from the cold wind. Daylight broke through the canopy as the branches pulled back. At once, a tiny, sleek shape shot through the new gap and turned around the pond’s clearing, reflecting the light of the pond—

No, that wasn’t a reflection. The bird was glowing too.

It was a little sparrow. It swept close and made to land in the mud.

It then grew a hundred times, two hundred times, becoming a massive lump of unrecognisable living flesh—

Then it became a deer. An elk, with curving tree-branch antlers, tall and impressive. It was silver, glowing from its heart, and it had darker, nearly black fur on its nose and around its blue eyes. It stepped forward, and Missouri stepped back and bumped into Elsie, but the deer advanced too fast to let them escape.

It bit the tassels of Missouri’s shawl, then backed away again, taking the shawl with it. Missouri’s shoulders got cold, but she barely noticed; the deer was shrinking, leaning back on its hind legs.

The stag stopped glowing. It had become a human man, naked but for the shawl around his waist. He was a white man, his skin darkened by sun and thorough weathering. His near-black hair was coloured like the nose of his deer form; it was unruly, and he lifted a hand to push it away from his face. His face was well-proportioned, with a tidy jaw, a straight nose. What struck Missouri more than anything about his face was that his eyes were defined by crinkles of joy.

“My name,” the man said in a puff, “is C—” He exhaled again, evidently short of breath. “Castiel. I am a guardian of this forest.”

Missouri remained a safe distance away. “Missouri,” she said. “Behind me is Elsie.”

“It’s an honour,” Castiel huffed. He hung his head, and he heaved for breath a few more times before looking up again. “Forgive me, I had to – _hh_ – fly a long way.”

Missouri didn’t let herself worry about the surreality of this. “Do you know where Dean is?”

Castiel looked up with recognition in his eyes. “You know Dean?”

“ _You_ know Dean?”

“Dean is under my protection,” Castiel said, with a nod. “He was injured, but he’s safe.”

Missouri hadn’t expected that; her hand flew to her heart, and she cried out in complete relief. She felt Elsie gripping her shoulder in celebration, but then Elsie stepped past, approaching Castiel.

“And what about my sister? Her name is Teresa, she’s thirteen years of age.”

Castiel blinked, chin rising as he took a step away. It looked a bit like he was scared of Elsie; his eyes darted to Missouri, perhaps for reassurance. “I don’t—” he began, “I don’t know your sister.”

Elsie’s shoulders slumped, and she wavered on her feet. Missouri reached for her, grasping her arm to secure her.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, turning his dimpled chin towards the pond, which had stopped glowing now. “I was flying overhead and the forest called me, I didn’t come prepared with answers. I’ve been trying... for _months_ now, I’ve been searching for where the missing people are being taken. All I can assume is—”

He cut himself off, eyes meeting Elsie’s. Missouri could guess his thoughts: he thought the missing people were dead, but he didn’t want to be the one to inform Elsie.

“They have yet to be found,” Castiel said at last. He couldn’t look at either of them any more. He turned away, showing them the whole of his pale back. “I recommend both of you return the way you came. Return to the outpost. The forest spirits will help you get there. It’s not safe for you here, not amongst the real trees.”

“Why?” Elsie demanded, stalking forwards and forcing Castiel to skitter through slippery mud. “What’s in this forest that’s so dangerous? Is it you?”

“I don’t think so,” Castiel said, meeting her eye and shaking his head. “I don’t know the cause, it could be me as much as anything else. I don’t intend to stop searching until I find out what it is. I truly wish I could bring your sister back, but I don’t know _how_.”

Missouri felt reassured by that, while not letting it show on her face: Castiel seemed similar to Dean in some ways – his drive to save people, for one thing. If Dean was under Castiel’s protection, then Dean was probably in good hands. That is, so long as Castiel was telling the truth.

Castiel straightened, putting on an air of importance. “Both of you should leave. You’re in danger here.”

“But what about my sister?!” Elsie shouted, chasing Castiel back another few steps. “We’ve come so far, why would we turn back now? Just because another white man says we should? No! I don’t care about danger, I care about getting my sister home!”

Missouri stepped forward to intervene, because Castiel looked legitimately scared by Elsie’s shouting. He’d pressed himself to a tree, chin up, hands clenched into Missouri’s shawl around his waist.

“Come,” Missouri said to Elsie, pulling her back a short way. “He doesn’t know where Teresa is.”

“But he won’t let me try and find out! Don’t do this! Don’t do that! You’re free but you can only do what we say! Aren’t you sick of it, Missouri?” Elsie had turned on Missouri now, shoving her hand away. “Don’t you want to dictate where _they_ get to go, who _they_ get to speak to?”

Missouri sighed, eyes on Castiel. “Somehow... I don’t think a guardian of the forest is the same as Mr. Trevor Horace, or the mayor,” she said thoughtfully. She then looked at Elsie, seeing the frown of anger, the downturned mouth of anguish, the rounded eyes of fear. “Honey, I wish every day the world was more equal than it is. But fight your battle somewhere safer, where you got the high ground. If Castiel says we’re in danger here then we’d best believe him. He knows this forest better than we do.”

“They _all_ know everything better than we do,” Elsie said bitterly, a sneer of hatred lifting her lip.

“I am sorry,” Castiel said. “I don’t know how to make you believe – how to make _any_ of you believe that I mean well. Even Dean doesn’t trust me.”

Missouri felt a quiet pride, lifting her chin.

Castiel sighed, then strode past gingerly, eyes on Elsie like a cautious feline prowling around a dog. “May I take Dean his bag?” he asked, lifting it from where Missouri had dropped it. He picked up Dean’s muddy, ruined clothes and put them inside the bag, then collected up the broken ties of Dean’s amulets, silver symbols dangling. He glanced up at Missouri. “And his gun. He wants them back.”

“It’s them sandwiches he wants,” Missouri said, reluctantly handing him the gun. She was surprised when Castiel smiled.

“Dean adores food,” Castiel said, fiddling with the bag’s straps. “It’s a pleasure to watch him eat...” He shifted. “I’d better get back to him, he’s not as strong as he pretends he is. He might do something irrational.”

Missouri swallowed, watching Castiel remove the shawl from his waist in a sweep, handing it back to Missouri. “Thank you for this,” he said to her, not meeting her eyes. “I wish you good luck, and a safe journey. And fewer subjugations,” he added, sending a glance Elsie’s way. Elsie was hunched by a tree now, her face in her hands.

Castiel sighed. “Farewell, my friends,” he said, then burst into a white spread of wings. He lifted the bag and the gun in his huge eagle talons; the weight didn’t seem to trouble him. He flapped to the space between the trees over the pond, then flew away. He screeched once, and the cry echoed before disappearing amongst the forest’s whispers.

Missouri went to comfort Elsie, squatting at her side and wrapping her arms around the other woman’s smaller form. She blanketed her with the shawl, running her hand down her back.

“We’ll find her,” Missouri said. “If Dean’s alive in here then there’s a chance Teresa’s alive too. And Charlie’s mother, and all the other people, the children in your class who vanished.”

Elsie cried wetly against Missouri’s shoulder. Her fingers clutched at her dress front, and a slow whine escaped her throat. “What if she’s dead, like Dean said,” she wailed quietly, broken words accompanying her broken heart. “What if all that happens is that you and me die in here too?”

“We won’t,” Missouri said boldly, standing up and pulling Elsie up too. “We’re gonna go home, and wait for Dean to find those missing people for us. I came in here to find Dean, and I now suppose I found him. Once he gets going again, he’ll know what to do.”

“But the deer tracks—”

“They make sense,” Missouri said, guiding Elsie away from the clearing, carrying both their bags over one shoulder. “If Castiel can transform like that, it’s no leap to think Dean got hit. Castiel seems nice enough. Still. No matter what Castiel really is, Dean wouldn’t take shit from him, deer or not.”

Elsie laughed softly at that, which made Missouri smile.

They walked on, but didn’t attempt to re-enter the forest of illusion, as that might not lead them home. Instead they travelled through a copse of yellow aspens; the position of the sun informed them going in this direction would lead them closer to the edge of the forest. The effort Missouri exerted made her feel hot. She was sweating with it, but once Elsie left her side and carried her own pack, her temperature regulated. _Probably menopause_ , she thought to herself. It was about time that kicked in.

It got warmer again a minute later, and the warmth came with a distant howling, one playful gust of wind racing another through the trees.

“It seems weak to me,” Elsie said. Her voice was changed by her emotion, but she maintained a lighthearted tone. “Just going home and leaving the work to a white man. A man who got himself hurt. I want to find them myself! I want to go back to the town and have all twenty-nine of them following behind me. A native can do it too! I can save people too, I can be a hero like they can! And a woman!”

Missouri didn’t have a word against what she said, and she smiled as she imagined how great it would be if it could really happen.

“I wasn’t joking, you know,” Elsie said, in a harder manner than before. “When I said I don’t care about the danger, I meant it.”

Missouri let them slow down, and they stood in the shade of sky-reaching pine trees, surrounded by whispers and deep noise. The heat was alarming now; she couldn’t pay complete attention to Elsie, as she realised it wasn’t her own body getting too hot, but the air around them.

“I want to save them,” Elsie said. “Even if they died, I wish I knew for sure. Not knowing is worse.”

“Elsie,” Missouri said warningly.

“No! Don’t you talk me out of it. You can go home if you want, but that place isn’t home unless Teresa’s there. Being with Charlie isn’t a solution when she feels the same as me, empty without knowing where her mother went. I can’t love her until I know. She can’t love me until _she_ knows. All the answers are right here, I just have to look!”

Missouri’s eyes widened as she saw something bright and horrifying heading for them. She pointed behind Elsie. “Look!”

Elsie turned, and she too saw the fireball shattering trees around it as it hurtled through the forest. It was making a beeline for Elsie and Missouri; it was instinct to run.

They took each other’s hands and sprinted away, pulling each other, turning left to avoid the fire’s line.

But Missouri looked back at it, and the sweat on her skin flared cold as she realised the fire had turned towards them.

“It’s chasin’ us,” she exclaimed, running faster than she’d ever run before. She threw off her bag, and Elsie did too, and they hitched up their dresses and _ran_ , turning one way and then the other, trying to follow each other but splitting up in case it worked. The fire split two ways.

“We gon die, we gon die,” Missouri breathed, feeling the burn in her lungs and blood in his throat. Her legs were slowing, useless.

Elsie collided with her and shoved her to the ground, and the heat was _incredible_ as the fireball soared past, scalding their skin and burning trees to flame as it went. Missouri shouted, then screamed as she saw the fire turn back, and approach them like a drooling dog, five times their size, looming over them and looking at them with its flaming eyes.

The dog opened its dislocated jaws and swallowed the two women whole.


	7. New Trust

Castiel walked into the hut stark-naked. Dean yelped and ducked down in the wooden bath, for he too was naked.

Castiel took one look at Dean where he peered over the edge of the wooden tub, and he chuckled. “You’ve been naked for days, Dean, there’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

“Wh— Well yeah but—” Dean’s heart was pounding, and his eyes couldn’t resist tracking Castiel’s lithe form as he closed the door and strode leisurely to the dining table. He put down a muddy bag and an oddly familiar gun, then picked up his underwear. “But there’s... there’s stuff _I_ haven’t seen,” Dean finished, his voice trembling.

Castiel looked up curiously. “You haven’t seen a naked man? Don’t you look like this too, when you’re human?” He opened his arms wide and looked down at himself, then across at Dean.

Dean’s cheeks were probably bright red by now, and he couldn’t even blame it on the hot bathwater, because the water had barely been tepid to begin with. “I—” He swallowed. “It’s different. It’s different when it’s someone else.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, eyes wandering away in thought. He pulled his underwear back on, and Dean noted that he had mud all over his feet.

“So, um,” Dean said, swaying about in the bath, kicking his back legs to push himself higher, “How was the letter delivery?”

Castiel sighed like it had been a disaster and he didn’t want to talk about it. “It reminded me why I don’t show my face to people in the town,” he said.

“What happened?”

Castiel tied up the drawstrings on his underwear, then eyed Dean where he lounged, arms folded over the rim of the tub. A green leafy plant dangled over the wall beside Dean, and Dean’s fingers played with it as he waited for Castiel to answer.

“I was... shot at,” Castiel said.

He ignored Dean’s baffled cry of “What?!” and turned away.

“I ran into two of your friends on my way back,” Castiel said, going to the fireplace on Dean’s far right and unhooking the bucket of heating water from over the flames, hand covered with a cloth. “Missouri, and Elsie.”

Dean stood up in the bath in his shock, and promptly slipped and fell into the water, sending a tide across the floorboards. Castiel sighed and came closer, looming over Dean.

“They shot at you?” Dean asked in a hesitant voice.

“Them? No, the postmistress shot at me. Elsie and Missouri came looking for you,” Castiel explained, pouring a stream of water over Dean’s shoulders. Dean sighed at how glorious it felt to have someone else do it, but he squirmed on principle anyway, and felt relief when Castiel stopped pouring.

Castiel huffed. “Don’t you want help? You can’t wash your own behind, Dean. You can’t even scratch that far away.”

Dean gave a noise of complaint, shoving the bucket again. “Why were they there?” he asked, distressed. “Why aren’t they back at the outpost?!”

“They are back now, I hope,” Castiel said, ignoring Dean’s squawk and pouring wonderfully warm water over his hair, soaking it dark brown. “I told them to go home, and it seemed like they would. Elsie... that’s the younger one? Yes. She was more reluctant.”

“She wants to find her sister, I can understand why she wouldn’t wanna leave,” Dean said. He gripped the sides of the bath, trying not to groan at the bliss of having Castiel’s hand rubbing at his back, scrubbing with a brush he’d produced from somewhere unknown.

“They’re okay though, right?” Dean asked, pressing his lips together in his concern. “I don’t want either of them hurt.”

“There was a moment after I left when I thought I heard a prayer. But they were both uninjured when I saw them,” Castiel assured Dean, now pouring hot water along the ridge of Dean’s back, finger-combing the fur. Dean raised his rump unassumingly, pushing on the bath with his hands so he could guide Castiel’s hand to that _exact_ spot he’d been trying to scrub at for what seemed like hours.

They shared a moment of easy silence. Castiel trickled water over Dean, and Dean let himself be anointed – and occasionally he pushed into the touch; it wasn’t his fault, it just felt so damn good.

At the very least, the heat of the water distracted from the deep pit of worry in Dean’s gut that had appeared when he’d heard Elsie and Missouri weren’t where he left them. If that demon firehand ever got them, he didn’t know what he would do. Missouri was the only family Dean had left other than Sam, and losing her would probably destroy him. He might even become consumed with the case, hunting that one monster for the rest of his life, if his life even extended long enough to find it. That was what his father did after he lost his wife on the job. Dean didn’t think they were very different.

Eventually Castiel’s bucket ran out of water, so he told Dean to stand up.

Dean grabbed at Castiel’s bare shoulders as he stood, then got his balance. The rafters were too high to reach on this side of the hut, so he only had one wall on the left to lean against. Castiel’s bed was behind him, the front door was ahead of him, and the couch was on his right, facing the fire.

Castiel rubbed at Dean’s legs with a towel, and Dean giggled when the rubbing moved to his underside. “Tickles,” he laughed, lifting one of his hooves then putting it back down.

He gasped when the cloth moved further towards his genitals. “Cas, that’s— Um, that’s generally a no-go area?” Helplessly, he giggled again as Castiel scrubbed at the fur on his rear.

Castiel was polite, though: he didn’t touch anything Dean deemed too private or sensitive. It wasn’t like Cas hadn’t already seen it, Dean said to himself. And Dean had seen him, too...

Gosh. The thought of their intimacy made Dean feel giddy, and more than a little excited. He was therefore glad that Cas wasn’t looking between his legs any more, but had gone off to get another dry towel.

Dean stepped out of the bath and onto the wet towel, laid down to catch his drips, but he was twice the length of it, and he could hear the floorboards pat-plat-patting with his runoff. He shook himself, spraying water all around him – and only realised after that he shouldn’t have done that, humans didn’t shake themselves dry after a bath.

Castiel sighed forgivingly, going up to Dean and starting to dry his back for him. “You’ll be human again soon enough.”

“You don’t know that, though,” Dean said, feeling fragile now. “I could be stuck with these deer legs forever. And antlers!” He froze. “...Oh. I just remembered, I broke one of your owl skeletons while you were out. I’m sorry.” He folded his arms across his middle when Castiel’s towel stopped rubbing his hind legs dry. “I stood up and it got tangled in these goddamn things.” He flicked a hand irritatedly at the growths jutting out from an inch above his furry brown ears. “You know, I’m starting to get headaches. My neck ain’t built for these extra pounds.”

Castiel came to Dean’s front, drying where his skin grew to fur on Dean’s waist. Neither of them said anything, but the quiet moment gave Dean a chance to look at Castiel’s bare chest, admiring its width, and the points of his nipples. He had stocky hips; Dean longed to discover if the smooth shapes of his hips would give like muscle or soft fat if he touched the skin.

When Castiel looked up, Dean gave him a little smile.

“Maybe we could cut the antlers off,” Dean suggested, shrugging a shoulder. “Saw them down to nothing.”

Castiel cringed. “Where did they come from, though? You were transformed into a bigger creature. Mass like that doesn’t come from nowhere. What if the antler is a part of your skull, and it vanishes when you become human again?”

“Aren’t they made of hair?”

Castiel shook his head, taking Dean’s hand and pulling him around the couch and towards the fire. “Deer antlers are made of bone. They sprout from the skull, and— Here.” He pushed Dean down, and Dean knelt, front legs first, holding Castiel’s hands as he did, then his back legs followed suit and he could let his arms fall. Castiel reached to touch Dean’s hair with the towel, squashing the wet locks in his hands, but then he dropped the towel to the floor, and his fingers spread either side of Dean’s head. Dean could feel them touching the antlers.

“This furry velvet on your antlers,” Castiel said, “It’s a kind of skin, it gathers nutrients to feed the bone. Your antlers aren’t that of a fully grown deer; they’re juvenile.”

“But I’m a full-grown man,” Dean complained.

Castiel hummed a single note, stroking Dean’s head. Dean tilted his head back, looking up at the other man and feeling warm inside. _Just the fire,_ he told himself. _It’s just the fire making you feel warm._

“When you grew these antlers, Dean, you used a lot of energy. Transforming is a massive drain on power. For me, it’s magical power. For you, it’s whatever you’ve eaten. If you wondered why you slept for more than a day after you and I met, it’s because you were malnourished.”

“That’s... why you keep feeding me soup,” Dean realised aloud.

Castiel nodded, smiling as he ran his fingers through Dean’s hair again, helping it dry with the motion. “My concern is that your broken antler will retract whenever you become human again. You could be left with a head injury.” He tucked his lower lip under his tongue, eyes darting away. “That’s why I’ve been holding off making you any more human than you are already. _I_ needed to rest after I made you halfway human, but now, you’re the one who needs to rest. You must conserve your energy, and use it all for the antler. I can’t make you human until you grow it back. That means no chasing after Missouri or Elsie, and no running away. Essentially, if you want to leave, first you have to stay.”

Dean nodded gently, in understanding.

“The regrowth should be quick,” Castiel went on, fingering the break in the antler, then stroking Dean’s stiff yet bendable ears. “It grows from the tip, forming cartilage, then bone. Your other antler is only... nine inches. The broken one should take no more than, say, three, maybe four more days to regrow.”

“Four _days_ ,” Dean repeated. He tried to sound like it was terrible, and a great inconvenience – and it _was_ ; Missouri and Elsie might still be in danger, and he still had dead people to track down and a forestside civilisation to save – but four more days with Cas didn’t seem like a horrible way to spend his recovery. Castiel was a good cook, and he was attractive to look at – and even sleeping on the floor wasn’t too bad when there was a fire burning constantly at Dean’s side. Warmth felt all too rare in Dean’s life. Warmth like this was precious. Warmth from the heart.

Not the fire. No, it wasn’t the fire at all.

Dean looked up into Castiel’s eyes, and realised deserting him might end up being harder than he’d ever imagined.

They passed the day playing children’s drawing games by the fire, making up animals from a scribbled line, or drawing part of a body and leaving the other man to fill in the rest. They were playing tic-tac-toe now. Castiel had never played before, so Dean felt far too powerful when he abused his knowledge of the game so he won every time.

“This isn’t fair,” Castiel said, drawing in another X in the only space he could, leaving Dean free to win with his O once again. “You take the first go every time because you won the previous game, and that means I lose. Every single time. I’m constantly blocking your moves rather than making my own.”

Dean chuckled in a dastardly way, a wicked grin curling up his freshly-shaved face. “Now you know how I felt when I was six and Sam did the same thing to me.”

“Definitely not fair,” Castiel said grumpily, refusing to put down another X. “This game is rigged.”

Dean sighed dramatically, flinging down his pen. “Ahh, I’ve been found out.”

Castiel harrumphed, but he couldn’t hide his smile.

Outside, it was getting dark, and the dim twilight lent the inside a comfortable gloom. The fire filled the hut with striking orange light and a smoky aura; the heat vaporised pine sap into the air, which made every one of Dean’s breaths feel heady, yet soothing.

Castiel had chosen to put clothes back on a few hours ago, so now he sat cross-legged on a cushion from the couch, a slight hunch in his shoulders that only indicated relaxation. It made Dean feel good, knowing he could make a god smile.

Castiel sighed slowly, pushing his hair off his face, tucking a lock of it behind his ear. His eyes were on Dean’s hands.

Haltingly, he reached closer, and Dean’s heart fluttered – but Castiel only pointed at the silver bracelet on his wrist. “What is that?”

“This?” Dean raised his wrist and shook it, letting the charms jiggle about. “It was my mother’s. She was a hunter too, but I didn’t even know that until after she died.” He gave Castiel a smile, but it was laced with real sadness, grief he hadn’t been able to shake, no matter how many years passed. “She would’ve hated to know I became a hunter too.”

“What about Sam?” Castiel asked, tilting his head. “Doesn’t he hunt?”

“He... does. Sort of. He quit to go study.” Dean shrugged. “Weak option, if you ask me.”

Dean didn’t really believe those words, and Castiel must have sensed that, because he sat up straighter, narrowing his eyes. “Studying... _learning_ , that’s the best option there is,” he said. “I commend your brother for taking that option. Safer, yes. _Weaker_? No, not at all. I think I would give anything to study at a school. Jimmy rebuked such things, but I’m... well, I’m not like Jimmy.”

Dean smirked self-consciously, looking down at his fingers, where he traced the intersecting lines of Castiel’s Xs on the paper. “Actually, I, uh...” Dean swallowed, and the smirk went away. “My dad was the one who said it was weak.”

“Do you agree with him?”

Dean sighed, lips parting. “No.”

“Then why say it?”

Dean shrugged a shoulder, almost displacing his blanket cocoon. “He impressed a lot of stuff on me. Things I thought were important, and true. I had to protect Sammy, never let him out of my sight.”

“You let Sam go to college.”

Dean grinned now, looking up at Castiel and holding his eye. “Yeah. And maybe that’s the best thing I ever did, you know? For me, and for Sam. I mean, it was Sam’s choice in the end, but the fact I let him go was a huge step for me.”

“You’re healing,” Castiel stated, and Dean nodded. “That’s good.”

Castiel reached forward again, fingers stretching for the bracelet. “This creation, it’s beautiful,” he said, fingers touching Dean’s wrist, caressing the bone. Dean got the impression he wasn’t only talking about the bracelet. “May I see it closely? I don’t recognise the symbols.”

Dean lifted his arm and offered it to Castiel, allowing him to hold his hand. “It’s for protection,” he told him. “Even _I_ don’t know what they all mean, but no big harm’s come to me while I’ve been wearing it, so I consider it lucky.”

Castiel glanced up. “You got turned into a deer. You don’t count that as unlucky?”

Dean bit his lip, feeling tingles of pleasure erupt in his stomach and midriff as Castiel played with his fingers, stretching the digits between his own. “Being a deer has its perks,” he said, somewhat breathlessly.

Castiel’s fingertip touched the silver bracelet— “Ah!” His hand sprang backwards, like he was stung. “It burns!”

“It— What?!” Dean curled his wrist closer, touching his own hand to the silver. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Me, it burns me,” Castiel clarified, and Dean realised that should have been obvious; he’d forgotten they weren’t the same species. Castiel was cradling his fingertip. Dean peered at it, and was stunned to see a red mark, straight across Castiel’s finger where he’d touched the bracelet.

“Is it all silver that burns?” Dean asked, reaching a hand to soothe Castiel. “Or is it just this bracelet?”

Castiel shook his head, shrugging, lacking a definite answer. “Silver never burned before, does that matter?”

Dean pulled his hand away and swallowed, cupping a palm over his bracelet. “I wonder...” he said, as his mind began to gallop at a pace too fast for him to speak his thoughts aloud.

It was only when Castiel tilted his head that Dean slowed his thoughts down and gave an explanation.

“You’re a god, right? And this bracelet burns you. Let’s say it’s not all silver, it’s just this _one_ bracelet. With all its symbols, religious symbols. These things are all about gods.

“Now,” Dean took a breath, hands open as he aligned his thoughts in mid-air. “What if I haven’t been caught by the monster in this forest yet, not because I did something ‘smart’, or whatever Missouri wants to say I did, but because I’m wearing this?” He pointed at the bracelet. “It was on my front leg when I turned into a deer. While you were out today, I moved it off my leg and put it back on my wrist. And it burns you, and you’re a god.”

“I don’t see what you’re saying,” Castiel said, still nursing his finger with a rubbing thumb. “Your mother gave you her bracelet to protect you from me? That sounds absurd.”

Dean quirked his lip. “Well, _that_ is. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying: what if it’s a _god_ taking these people? Killing them. And it didn’t take me because I’m wearing this?”

Castiel stared, chewing his inner cheek like there was something believable about what Dean said, but then he shook his head. “If that were true, why were we chased by the fire the other day? It’s never come after me in all the time I’ve been in the forest; clearly it was after you, and you were wearing the bracelet at the time.”

“But it didn’t get me,” Dean insisted.

“Because I called a storm and extinguished it,” Castiel said, more harshly than Dean had expected.

Dean lifted his hands in a soft gesture. “You saved my life back there. Not disputing that.”

“So what are you saying, then?”

Dean’s mouth moved soundlessly, wary of Castiel’s ire. And then, a moment later, he realised why Castiel was getting angry. “Cas,” Dean said, with a gentle hush on the name. “I’m not accusing you. I’m not.”

Castiel blinked a few times. “You’re not?”

“You brought my gun back. That thing, it’s got golden deer on it, did you see them?”

Castiel nodded in a befuddled way.

Dean smiled. “Those deer remind me about good and bad. When I first saw you, you were a deer. With my job, I gotta be the kind of person who accepts coincidences as omens. Symbols have meaning. You’re full of magic, which should lead me to think you’re bad. But your favourite form is the deer, and you’re looking after me, Cas. I’m not saying I trust you, but I don’t think you’re something I’m meant to hunt. So, no, Cas, this isn’t an accusation. You’re not evil.”

He swallowed when Castiel blinked, eyes set on the floor. Dean’s voice came out gentle as he asked, “Aren’t there other gods? I mean, I’m guessing you’re not _the_ God, so...?”

“Not on Earth,” Castiel said, blinking again. He looked away, a frown appearing between his eyebrows. “As far as I know.”

Dean put on a tiny smile, reaching across to touch Castiel’s hand. Castiel jerked back in reaction, but when he realised Dean wasn’t going to hurt him, he relaxed. He even turned his hand to hold Dean’s, and Dean tried not to think about how reassuring that was.

He wasn’t meant to trust this creature, and yet here he was, feeling better because Cas’ hands were comfortable to hold, despite their calluses. Perhaps because of them, Dean’s mind added. He’d never held a man’s hand before. It felt relieving; he’d waited far too long to do such a thing.

“Whoever or whatever took those people, we’re going to find them, okay?” Dean gave Castiel’s hand a squeeze. “Together.”

Castiel looked up, and for the first time since meeting him, Dean saw enough emotion in his eyes that he felt moved, his heart set racing, his stomach in a lurch. Castiel did nothing more than nod, and offer a smile, but that was enough. Dean gave in and decided it was about time he trusted someone again. Castiel seemed like a good choice.

The sunlight of the following day shone in sparkling stripes across the room, riding bright on dust and fireplace debris that had escaped the chimney and infiltrated the hut. Dean was hunched against the front of the couch, one elbow on the cushions, back legs sprawled over the floorboards. He was topless, warmed by the sun, feeling the burn of white gold in his eyes as he gazed towards the window, where Castiel sat at the table.

Castiel’s silhouetted profile seemed dishevelled, his shoulders hunched, his hair thoroughly mussed. However, his cotton sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and he wore a small smile on his face, which lent him a comfortable appearance.

He and Dean had remained sitting in companionable silence for what had probably been hours. Long, peaceful hours.

Castiel was cutting pictures out of a newspaper, scissor snips deliberate around the printed shapes. He collected illustrations: he kept a leather-bound book full of them, laboriously pasted in with homemade glue. He’d let Dean take a look not too long ago, and since then, the _snip-snip-sckrch_ of scissors and paper had joined the rest of the ambience in their private space.

Dean took slow breaths, listening to the muffled sound of a bird singing on the rooftop, its warbles echoing down the chimney, made distant by the thick thatch on the roof. The crackle of the fire and its stifling heat constantly tried to lull Dean back to sleep, and he was getting there, but he refused to let it take him yet: he had barely started re-reading _Dorian Gray_ , and he wanted to reach the second chapter before he took a nap.

Returning his light-stung eyes to the pages before him, Dean smirked as a sentence leapt out at him immediately. Without offering any context whatsoever, and without fanfare, Dean read aloud, “ _I really can't see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made of ivory and rose-leaves._ ”

Castiel lifted his head, peering over at Dean. “What is an ‘adonis’?”

“Ancient Greek mythology,” Dean explained. “Adonis was the god of beauty and desire.”

Castiel chuckled, a rather startled sound. He set down his scissors and his hole-ridden newspaper, turning in his seat to face Dean, hands on his knees. “My coal-black hair, your rose-pink lips.”

Dean lowered his eyes, failing to stifle his gasp. “My lips— I didn’t— What—”

“That’s why you read it out, is it not? Our resemblance is the ideal of godliness. I’m not as much a god as I would like, and you... Well, you’re beautiful without even trying.”

Dean’s eyelids fluttered, mouth hanging open as he kept his stare averted. He had no idea what to say to that. Heat had pooled in his gut like all the day’s sunlight had suddenly collected there, and he was almost certainly glowing. Or blushing. Or both.

“Thanks,” Dean said breathlessly.

In an attempt to shield his burning face from Castiel’s sight, he turned his head and gazed steadily towards the fire. It was simmering gently, having gone unstoked for a while. Set on the low table between Dean and the fire, Castiel’s tiny frog hobbled around its terrarium, the large glass jar catching the sunlight on one face. A feeble chip emerged from the punctures in the cork lid, and Dean listened carefully, hearing another call.

“I think he doesn’t like the sun,” Dean said, eyes darting to Castiel.

“Some frogs like the sun,” Castiel assured him. “But this one doesn’t,” he added hastily, standing up and going forward to scoop the jar off the table in his hands. He carried it to its usual shelf, where the shadow of the walls kept that part of the hut cool. “Thank you, Dean,” he said with a sigh of relief. “I forgot I’d moved the jar.”

“He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know if it’s a ‘he’,” Castiel said, crouching slightly to check the frog wasn’t harmed. “But yes, it seems to be okay. I’ll put some cold water in...”

Dean watched as Castiel went to get some fresh water from his own drinking glass, opening up the jar to test what was already there with a fingertip, then pouring some more in.

“Only the male frogs croak, you know,” Dean mentioned, in case Castiel wasn’t aware. “Your frog is a boy.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder at Dean. “Really?” he said. Then he added, “Of— Of course, I knew that.” He was clearly lying; Dean chuckled at how badly he hid it. With pinkened cheeks, Castiel went and fetched a few live mealworms from another jar. Dean screwed up his face as the maggot-like creatures were gulped down whole by the tiny amphibian, sitting there with its belly halfway in the water.

“How come your frog’s not vegetarian?” Dean asked, letting his magazine fold closed. “You’re so insistent about not harming living creatures, but you’re fine standing there practically cramming worms down its throat.”

Castiel turned around, one eyebrow raised and his mouth in a flat line as he looked at Dean. “Are you really suggesting that I ought to alter another living creature’s behaviour to suit my own ideals?”

“You’re already halfway there, aren’t you? That frog is meant to be swimming in a pond someplace, not cooped up in a jar.”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably, leaning back against the shelf. “That’s different. I’ve raised this frog since it was a tadpole, I’m not sure it would survive in the wild.”

Dean scoffed. “It has instincts, Cas. They’re built in. Trust me, if you let it go free, it would get along just fine. Who knows, maybe the little guy would meet a lady frog and start a family of its own. More tadpoles.”

Castiel stared down at his bare feet. “But... I...” He looked away, to the plain wall opposite the window, where a slanted square of light was beginning to make its way towards the floor as the sun rose higher.

Dean let out a long, deep breath. “You’d be lonely without it, huh. That’s why you keep it?”

Castiel shrugged. “Yes. And no.” He swallowed. “Mostly yes. I find it – him – interesting to watch.” Their eyes settled on the jar, and Dean could just about see the frog swimming around under its tiny canopy of leaves. The plants growing in the jar flourished in the moist environment, particularly the moss.

Castiel spoke again eventually, returning his gaze to meet Dean’s. “If I were to study something, I would study animals. Presently, I can care for them with my magic – but as I so shamefully advertised just now, I’m not as good a carer as I’d like to be. I want to know how humans do it. How you tame wild creatures, how you keep them happy. How you get silk from worms. There are a million things to know, and I feel I know none of them.”

“You know how to grow an antler back,” Dean said with a smile. “You’re doing just fine caring for a cervitaur. Don’t beat yourself up about it, you’re trying.”

“I want to be better,” Castiel said, quite simply.

Dean inhaled a deep breath, then let it out again, still smiling. “I respect that.” He paused. “Yeah. I dunno,” he said, shrugging a shoulder and looking down at his furry lap. “All those things you wonder about live animals, I wonder about machines. I wanna... I wanna make the world move faster, you know? Right now everything seems so slow.”

“You would study machines?”

“Study? Nah. I’m curious, that’s all. Mechanisms. Electricity. Automobiles. I have questions I’ve never had the chance to answer. I had a look at a train engine, once. If anything was ever an Adonis, that engine was.” Dean felt elation, then frustration that the engine wasn’t in his hands right now. “It was like with guns. I’ve never seen anything else I wanted to take apart and put back together just to see how it worked.”

His sentence ended, but his thoughts carried on, against his will: _Nothing else – until you, Cas._ With a momentary frown, Dean turned his face away.

“I hope one day you get the chance,” Castiel said to him, in a voice as soft as velvet.

“You too,” Dean nodded. “Honest-to-God, Cas. I really hope you do.”


	8. Sam Winchester

_Monday, the 21st of September, 1890._

_Sam! I’m going to write really tiny this time because I have so much to say._

_I’ve been in this hut four-and-a-half days now, I got here on Wednesday afternoon. I’m STILL half-deer, which is a pain. But the antler is almost grown back now, thanks to all that nutritious soup Cas has been making me. The pumpkin one is my favorite at the moment, he made about 10 times more than I’ll ever be able to eat. The whole hut smells like food. Even when I’m done eating, I’m hungry again... I’m getting kind of plump around the middle, but I don’t even mind. If I wasn’t so worried about Missouri and Elsie ~~I’d be happy to stay here forever~~.  
actually I had a dream about Missouri and Elsie, they were sitting in a little house made of sticks, drinking hot coffee. Missouri was always saying things about dreams having meaning, so I’ll gladly believe it means they’re both safe. It’s a weight off my mind, at least._

_I probably only need another day or so of rest, and then I can go. (Cas is complaining. He’s making me read this letter out while I write it, it’s like he loves the sound of my voice or something. But it’s really sweet, he’s saying he doesn’t want me to go———_   
_...that was Cas making me stop writing that because it’s ‘embarrassing’_   
_and now he’s sulking. Seriously, he’s like a little grumpy puppy. It’s hard to believe he’s an actual god—_   
_I read that aloud and then he made it snow inside the hut. I’m shivering now.. and then he said sorry and NOW IT’S TOO HOT._   
_...all right, five minutes and one wrestling match later, the hut is now a bearable temperature. THIS IS WHAT I HAVE TO DEAL WITH, SAM._

_He’s actually not as bad as all that. I think he let me win that wrestling match, he didn’t want to hurt me. And the other night he gave me his mattress right off his bed, so I can sleep by the fire like I’m his pet. (Cas laughed. He laughs like Jimmy did but different, sort of ...better.)  
So Cas is sleeping on the couch. Apparently he made that couch himself, and I can believe that. (Cas wants to know if that was an insult, and if he can’t work it out then I don’t think I want to tell him.)_

_Mostly I’ve been sleeping. Cas went out one more time to post my letters and buy me more paper, but I think he actually stole the paper. (Cas isn’t saying a word against this as I’m reading it so I’ll assume it’s true.) He also found my bag, did I tell you that? So now I have both of them, including my gun. I’m real happy to have that back. I missed those little golden deer. (Guess it’s kind of funny that there’s deer on the gun and I‘m a deer and Cas was a deer when I met him. I don’t really have a favorite animal, but I’m starting to appreciate deer a certain amount. They have terrible eyesight, but the broken bit of my antler makes a really good backscratcher.)_

_What I want to know is if Cas would be able to ride my back. I mean, the—  
Cas threw a cushion at me because I WAS KIDDING. He thought I was being serious. I had to tell him, “no, Cas, it was a joke to make Sam feel uncomfortable” and he got it eventually. (I think he’s a bit disappointed)_

_Actually that’s something I wanted to write to you about, the way Cas doesn’t even realise that him riding me would be inappropriate. He doesn’t really have any preconceptions about modesty or things like that. He has baths while I’m right there – it’s comfortable now, it doesn’t bother me at all. And I told him about me doing embroidery, and he didn’t say “but that’s for girls” like other people do. Elsie didn’t say that either, but I could tell she was thinking it. All it is is putting a sharp pointy needle in a bit of cloth! What’s girly about that? I showed Cas how to do it today, and I made a deer, and he made a walnut. (it just looks like a blob but its a good start)  
(Cas said thank you.) ~~(ain’t he a little angel)~~_

_But yeah, that’s basically everything. Wow, I talk about Cas a lot... That doesn’t mean anything, I swear, it’s just that he’s the only interesting thing around here. (Cas said thank you again, nobody’s ever called him interesting before. I told him nobody ever called him batshit crazy either, but he just solemnly said “no” and I laughed and then he smiled and he smiles really nice, it’s like... I don’t know, but it’s nice.) (I think Cas is blushing)  
(I think I’m blushing too this isn’t fair) _⬅ _I didn’t read this bit out, don’t tell Cas_

_You’ve probably got my first letter by now, the one I wrote a week ago when I arrived at Black Hills. Hopefully the rest of them arrive soon. I’ve been writing to Missouri too, Cas delivers the letters right to her house under the door. I really wish I could see her but I’m just so tired right now, even with Cas leading me back I don’t think I have enough energy to make it. Kudos to all those deer that grow antlers in winter snow with no food, it must be horrible._

_I’ll write again tomorrow! All my love to you and Jess! – Dean_

Sam wandered back into the library, covering a yawn with his fist. The library gleamed with sunlight, golden stripes across the polished oak surfaces. In the same lines of sun, Sam could see the bright hair of Jessica Moore, and he was grinning before he approached the desk she sat at to study. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, curling a hand over the back of an empty chair.

Jessica beamed when she looked up. “Of course, Sam. Hey, how have you been? I didn’t see you after the lecture the other day.”

“Oh, oh... yeah, I went to bed,” Sam said quietly, chuckling as he pulled his seat closer, getting comfortable. He set his mail down on the table, spreading it out so he could see the handwriting on the front of each letter. “I’m not great with late nights unless I’m studying.”

Jessica cupped her rosy cheek with her hand, neck turning as she pulled her blonde hair over her shoulder. She seemed fascinated by everything Sam said, which ought to be a good sign for him, except he’d been told the same story by plenty of other students: Jessica seemed interested, but once anyone got too close, she would quite literally shut a book on their hand or throw her drink in their face. Sam supposed a hard heart was a requirement of being the only woman studying at Stanford. Men liked to wheedle their way close in order to bed her or ruin her chances at succeeding, and Sam’s assumption was that Jessica didn’t think he was any different himself. So, as a precaution, he hadn’t flirted at all, not once.

“Who’re these from?” Jessica asked, eyes lowered to where Sam was arranging his letters in order of importance.

“This one’s from Dean,” Sam said, pointing at one. “The fact he sent one at all means he came back out of the forest alive, thank God.”

He lifted another letter. “This one’s from our father.” He eyed it with distaste, then set it aside. “I hate opening those. He sends money, and he promises to come back and see us every time he sends anything, and every time he says that, I think, no you won’t, you never do. But at the same time, this big block of dread sits over me. What if he does come back? I was only young, but Dean? Dean remembers every detail of what Dad was like.”

Jessica’s frown was acute; she was clearly pondering over Sam’s words, but she didn’t say anything.

Sam took a deep breath, then ran his hand over a third letter. “This one, I’m not sure who it’s from.” He lifted it and examined the handwriting of the address, a hurried scrawl with underlying smoothness. “I recognise it...”

“Open it,” Jessica urged. “You always think about things too much, Sam.”

“I’m a think-before-I-leap sort of person,” Sam replied, but he grinned when Jessica gave him a stern look. “All right, all right.” He reached forward and picked up Jessica’s spare pen, checked it was free of ink, then used the sharp nib to cut the sealing wax.

He handed the pen back and opened up the letter.

His eyes went first to the name at the bottom of the page. “Missouri?!”

“That’s your mother, isn’t it?”

“Yes. No – not really. Mary was our mother. Missouri looked after us when Mary died and our father took off searching for her killer.”

Jessica looked sorry she’d mentioned it, but Sam shook his head, licking his lips. “It’s okay,” he said. “Hang on, let me read...”

His eyes scoured the page, and his heart started to pound.

“ _Going into the forest,_ ” he muttered. “She’s going into the forest?!”

Jessica narrowed her eyes. “Black Hills? You told me Dean went in and—”

“Yes! Yes, that’s the problem. Dean went in the first time, came back out, then went in and didn’t come back out again. Missouri says in this letter that – _shit_ – she’s going in after Dean. Along with Elsie. That’s the native woman Dean mentioned in his first letter.”

“Is it safe?”

“No,” Sam breathed. He thrust a hand back through his tufty hair, clenching his fingers against the crown of his head. “No, they’re not safe at all. And Dean didn’t come back, that’s the worrying thing. Missouri had a dream he was in danger, and that means it’s bad.”

“You really believe all that stuff?” Jessica asked softly, reaching over to touch Sam’s shirtsleeve. “Monsters, magic dreams?”

“It’s not just the natives who have fantastic beliefs,” Sam said, looking Jessica in the eye. “You believe in a man who walked on water and turned water to wine, don’t you? We all have stories that we grew up with – they’d sound crazy to anyone who didn’t know them already.”

If Jessica had been anyone else, Sam’s declaration would have raised hell. But Jessica was Jessica, and she leaned closer with concern darkening her eyes. “Is there anything you can do?”

“I— I don’t know.”

A thought scattered into his head like a horse entering a courtyard, loud hooves and wild eyes. _Go and find him yourself!_

Jessica gave Sam’s hand a squeeze. “This is one of those times where analysing every option before you act would be a good thing, Sam. I know what you’re thinking. Going to find him would be madness.”

“I know... I know it is,” Sam said, touching his hand against Missouri’s letter. Worry gnawed at his gut. He wouldn’t be able to read a book calmly until he knew Dean was safe, until he knew _Missouri_ was safe. She shouldn’t have gone in. When it came to hunting, she wasn’t prepared for any eventuality like Dean was.

“Here,” Jessica said, pulling Dean’s letter to her. “I’m going to open this. We’ll read it together and we’ll see what Dean’s up to, okay?”

“That one is from before Dean went missing,” Sam said, shaking his head and retrieving the letter. “Missouri sent hers after.”

He tapped his fingertips against the table, agitation building too fast. “I have to go,” he realised aloud. “People are trickling into that forest and unless someone finds out where they’re going, the cycle will never end.”

He stood up from the table, but was wrenched back down by a hand of surprising strength. Jessica’s grip on his wrist didn’t wane, and she levelled Sam with a glare that sent shivers down his spine.

She took a breath, and with incredible calmness, she said, “If you go into that forest, you’re just as likely never to come out as anyone else. It doesn’t matter that you trained for this. Dean went in and didn’t come out. Maybe Missouri too. Do you want to disappear as well? And give up _this_?” Her eyes turned to the embellished ceiling, the chandeliers, the oaken walls laden with thousands upon thousands of books. She gazed back at Sam, and let his wrist go. “It’s your choice. But be aware you could be giving up your whole future.”

“He’s my _brother_.” Sam leaned closer, setting the side of his hand down on the table firmly. “I can’t leave him. Or _any_ of those other people. I don’t think Dean’s dead, but that means he needs rescuing. There’s nobody more qualified for that than me.”

“And who is qualified to rescue you? I hope it’s nobody, Sam. Because one more person in that forest is bait to pull another inside. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me,” Sam said, standing up slowly this time. He scooped his letters towards him, knocking their edges against the tabletop to level them out. “But that’s exactly why I shouldn’t stay here and do nothing. In my experience, doing nothing gives no results whatsoever. If he’s alive now, hanging, bleeding out in some deer-wendigo’s cave, will he still be alive in a week? The chances are slim to nothing, Jessica. If I can save him, I can come back to Stanford again. But even if I can’t save him, it would be have been worth the try.”

“Even if you die?”

Sam looked at her with an aching heart, pained by how his life was turning out. “Yes,” he said. “Even if I die.”

Jessica gave a slow sigh out through her nose. She looked stressed, but a small, wobbling smile appeared at the corners of her lips. “You always did have a martyr complex,” she said, getting to her feet. Her long peach-coloured dress brushed the floor as she made her way around the library’s table, going to Sam’s side. She took his hands, and Sam looked at where their hands joined, surprised at the contact.

“Sam?”

Sam looked into her eyes, and saw that stern femininity which had enticed him ever since the day they met. “Yeah?” he asked.

Jessica smiled, and leaned in to kiss Sam on the lips. Sam’s eyes widened in shock, but he managed to stay put long enough for Jessica to embrace him then pull away. She had a crafty grin on her face now, but Sam couldn’t help notice the sparkle of tears on her eyes.

“Like I said,” Jessica whispered, a hand against Sam’s heart. “Be aware of what you could be giving up if you don’t come back.”

Sam blinked rapidly, then nodded.

Sam boarded the three o’clock train bound for San Francisco, prepared to transfer at several stations on his way to South Dakota. He carried a bag packed for a two-day journey, then a rescue mission following that. He took warm winter clothes; the weather was decent in California, but his destination was no doubt freezing.

Sam read Dean’s newest letter on the train, while travelling in a compartment with five other people. It was only a short message.

_Wednesday, the 16th of September, 1890._

_Hey, little brother._

_I’m heading back into the forest tomorrow. I went in today, killed a deer by mistake, and thereby discovered that the forest is alive. You remember those whispers? They’re the forest’s voice, I’m sure of it. If you blink, the forest changes. It led me back outside, I’m the first person to come back ever since the first disappearance._

_People aren’t looking at me the same way as they did this morning. I wish I didn’t care what people thought of me, but I do. Some of them look like my return gave them real hope their families are still alive. Others, they’re wishing I was dead, dead like I know their families are._

_More than anything, I feel terrible about that deer. I just wish the forest had told me not to shoot. There are better ways to learn than by shooting things._

_Well, I’d better get to bed, I’ll post this before I leave tomorrow morning. If I don’t come back this time, count me dead. I won’t have you coming in after me._

_All my love to you, Sammy. – Dean_


	9. Celestial Atlas

Castiel dragged his paws as he got inside the hut, and closed the door quietly so Dean wouldn’t wake. The shutters were pulled closed: it was dark like night, and the hiss of the fire’s embers was the only sound in the stuffy warmth of the room.

But then came a mutter, and the sound of shifting cloth. Castiel saw Dean stir in his place by the fire, his unbroken antler casting a spooky shadow across the floorboards. “Cas?” came Dean’s sleep-thick voice. “Is that you?”

_Yes,_ Castiel said, but it came out as a low, “ _Grawlh._ ”

Dean shifted again, rolling over so his human torso was propped up on his elbows, belly to the feather mattress. “You’re a dog.”

Castiel chuckled. “ _Wuff._ ” His tail wagged, he couldn’t help it – he was happy to see Dean.

He padded over to the dining table, putting his front paws up on the chair to get to the left-hand window shutter. His mouth took hold of the shutter’s handle, and he pulled it open, letting the sunset light stream in, painting a thick golden line across the room. Dust swished about in the light, disturbed again as Castiel bounded up onto the other chair and opened the right-hand shutter.

He got down to the floor and made his way to Dean, tongue lolling happily as Dean reached a hand up to pet him. Castiel panted and smiled, enjoying the rough waggle Dean gave his ears.

“I slept all day,” Dean said, blinking tired eyes and fighting off a yawn. He rolled over and sank his side back to the bed, chortling when Castiel stepped onto the mattress too and flopped down next to his warm torso. Dean absently petted his scruff, giving a loud sigh as he did.

“I feel kinda guilty,” Dean announced to the glistening air. “I’m in here, relaxing and taking naps at all hours of the day, while somewhere out there, something’s waiting, ready to chomp up lost travellers. The outpost is only one side of Black Hills Forest. What if the same thing is happening on the other side? This forest is literally a million acres – at _least_.”

Castiel wanted to say none of this was Dean’s fault, that he would be able to get on with his job soon, but none of his words would come out in English if he spoke. He felt terrible for what was happening as well, and he sympathised with Dean.

Dean gave one last ruffle to the top of Castiel’s head, and then he made a sound of amusement. Castiel lifted his head to see what was funny.

Dean had a twinkle in his eye. “Hey,” he said. “Can you become a llama? A Castiel-llama.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean. _That would be a pointless use of my power, Dean,_ he said. Well, he said “ _Wuruugff,_ ” but he’d intended his words to scold.

Dean pouted. “Please. Go on. For me.”

Castiel thought Dean was being ridiculous. But he was also very pretty, which was a problem. Castiel rolled his eyes and became a llama.

Dean laughed in childish glee, pulling Castiel into a woolly hug. “That’s an alpaca,” Dean muttered into Castiel’s shoulder. “But nice try.”

Dean took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the wool, which should have made Castiel feel self-conscious about not having bathed today yet, but only made him happy. He nuzzled Dean’s cheek with his face, making him laugh and shove him away.

Castiel got to his feet and looked down, seeing fluffy silver legs and clumpy, cloven hooves. “ _Hummm!_ ” he said, then laughed because Dean had laughed. Dean laughed like he was surprised he was happy, like he was surprised _every_ time. Castiel supposed Dean hadn’t had many chances to be happy in his life, so really, being an alpaca for a little while was an easy way to replenish the joy already stolen from him.

“Now – an elephant shrew!” Dean said.

Castiel frowned. _I don’t know what that is._

Dean understood. “I... hm, I don’t think I could draw it. What about a squirrel?”

Castiel smirked. _That I can do._ He shrank down, watching Dean’s eyes lower as his body became the size of Dean’s hand.

Dean held out an arm, and Castiel bounced into his palm, chattering about how warm Dean’s palm felt against his tiny paws. Dean sat up, rolling on his deer body so he was kneeling, and his hands cupped together so Castiel could sit in front of his nose.

Oh, Dean had such beautiful eyes. Green like the forest at the height of summer. It was the best green there was. The freckles over his cheeks were arranged like the stars Castiel loved, he even saw the constellation of the Bear across his nose. And his lips were the mountain ranges in sunrise light. Pink and delicate.

Castiel stared at Dean's beauty and Dean stared at Castiel’s rodent form, apparently fascinated by his markings.

“You always have a little black on your nose,” Dean murmured, flicking at his own nose. “It’s kind of adorable. Like in those fables. How Castiel Got His Nose. The deer tried to drink from a rainwater tank, and the water looked black, but he just thought it was a shadow. Then he lifted up his nose and it was black, and it’s been black ever since.” Dean shrugged. “Moral of the story being, don’t drink shadows.”

Castiel chirruped, fluffing up his tail around his body. He liked that story.

Dean gave a sad smile, then sank his hands down to the floorboards. “You’d better become human again, or I’ll go on requesting animals all night. I really love little critters, you know? I wish I could talk to them for real, I’ve always wanted that.”

His eyes followed Castiel’s as Castiel grew back to human size, not yet tired out by it. Naked, he knelt before Dean’s floored mattress, hands on his knees. Dean wore a subtle blush, and his eyes only lowered to Castiel’s groin once before he exhaled and looked away.

“I was wondering...” Dean trailed off, “Can you become... really big? Something giant, with wings?”

“It’s possible,” Castiel said, catching and holding Dean’s eye. “Why?”

Dean licked his lips. “Well. If you could, you could take me back to the outpost. And I could rest up there.”

Castiel lowered his eyes, feeling unhappiness steal over him. “I can do that if you want,” he said, as gently as he could. His gaze met Dean’s again, and he saw trepidation there. The sight of that made Castiel tip his head, and ask, “Do you want me to take you back now?”

Dean’s mouth opened. “Uh. Well, I’m already set up here. I mean... if I went back I’d – you know, just have to start all over again, basically.” He looked down with a fitful nervousness in him. “I could just stay here another day. It’s just a day. It’s not a problem, me being here, right?”

Castiel gave him a warm, warm smile. “Oh, Dean. No. No, you’re a pleasure to have around.”

Dean’s breath seemed to hitch, lips shaking, even while his eyes remained cast down. “Awesome. That’s – that’s great, Cas. Really. Really great.” Almost as an afterthought, he whispered, “Thank you.”

Castiel moved his hand to curl around Dean’s. Their warmth tangled with their fingers, and Castiel could feel Dean’s heartbeat under his skin, pulsing with life. There was magic in that life. It was glorious to feel, and power surged in Castiel’s veins.

As a god, his power was supposed to be incompatible with that of this planet, and yet an anomaly like this was somehow possible. Like the magic in a heartbeat, Castiel firmly believed the nutrients in vegetables were a kind of magic, too. He caressed Dean’s hand now, and a fascinating thought stole over him: if he went on feeding Dean all manner of irresistible dishes, and Dean went on letting him share precious, intimate moments like these, Castiel could theoretically charge himself off Dean forever in this way. For Castiel, the exchange was nothing less than a miracle.

“I have another question,” Dean said.

Castiel looked up at him, curious.

“You’ve showed me – _so much_ , Cas. It’s all brilliant, not gonna lie. But I just... I _know_ there’s more. Is there—” Dean swallowed, then grinned breathily. His eyes shot to Castiel’s, and one side of his smile rose higher on his face. “Is there anything else you can do?”

Castiel blinked, and smirked. “Yes.”

“Can you show me?”

The sky rolled with fearsome shapes forming in the clouds. Grey weights pulled the darkness down, and twilight turned to night sooner than it would have otherwise. Dean jumped as he saw a lightning strike inside the clouds’ own bulk, and his reaction made Castiel laugh.

Castiel stood barefoot on the leafy ground outside his hut, arms raised and fingers spread to conduct the sky, his orchestra being the minuscule particles of water and the shifting air. His hair flapped like a flag as the wind tore through the forest, whistling through a crack in the hut’s window, howling through the sky. Dean could hear the storm roaring, beastly and humongous. His deer ears were so sensitive that the storm made them twitch ceaselessly, instinctively seeking out danger.

Dean’s eyes kept darting to Castiel, because he was afraid of him. He didn’t want to be afraid, because he knew the kindness in the other man’s heart, but never in all his life had Dean ever encountered a being so powerful. So ruthless. Dean saw trees thrashed from side to side, animals scattering in their worry that their homes might be uprooted. The sky was flashing bright, and Dean could smell tropical rain in the gale.

He was glad it was warm. If it had been ice-cold like he’d expected, he would have already turned tail and hidden inside the house.

“Do you like it?” Castiel shouted over the disaster brewing over them. “Doesn’t it inspire you? To be great! To be powerful!?”

Dean realised he might’ve made a mistake in asking for more. His voice shook as he called back, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s awesome.” At least it was the truth.

Castiel turned his eyes on Dean, and Dean stepped back, rendered aghast by what he saw. Castiel’s eyes and the inside of his mouth were glowing silver. Dean remembered being told Jimmy’s body shouldn’t glow. The idea of Castiel not being completely in control, not being completely what he was _supposed to be_ right now struck fear into Dean.

Castiel’s grin faded away, and his head tilted. This time, it wasn’t quiet and thoughtful, it was a mockery of what it usually was.

Dean took another step back.

Castiel blinked, and looked back at the sky. His shoulders slumped, and he let one hand fall.

The thunder paused halfway through a rumble. It receded, like it was being pushed away – and the wind died down a moment later.

“What?” Dean said under his breath, looking around the sky. The darkness was brightening, returning to the purple evening light it had been before.

When Dean looked over to Castiel, he felt his fear evaporate. Castiel was looking back at him, his eyes blue once more, his expression the picture of apologetic concern. “Too much,” he discerned. He looked back at the sky, and sighed.

A sweep of Castiel’s hand later, Dean looked up and saw the clouds dissipate completely, vapour turning over and over in swirls until it vanished. Dean saw a final few sparkles, a wisp of a cloud here and there, and then the sky was as empty as it would be on a summer’s evening.

It was cold, though. Ice-cold. Cold enough that Dean began to shiver, teeth chattering.

“Oh... I’m sorry, I’ve frightened you,” Castiel said, coming forward across the ground, which was now strewn with upturned leaves. “I’ll— I’ll get you another blanket, wait here.”

He left Dean where he was, and went back inside the hut. When he came out, Dean felt a blanket flop neatly over his deer back like he was a piece of furniture. He looked over his shoulder, and saw Castiel gazing up at him with guilt in his eyes.

“I’m just,” Dean said, “...n-n-not used to seeing s-s-so much at once. Th-that’s all.”

“I forgot how small humans are,” Castiel said, shaking his head and wafting away Dean’s excuse. “My true form is much bigger, I thought a little storm would be... fun. I don’t feel small when I’m playing with the sky. I got too excited.”

Dean shuffled his hooves. “Y-Yeah. I guess.”

He felt Castiel stand beside him, his head only level with Dean’s human chest. Castiel’s hand put reassuring pressure against the small of Dean’s back, and he rubbed at the softer blanket Dean’s human half was wrapped in.

“There are other things I can show you,” Castiel said, letting his hand rest on Dean’s deer shoulders. “Things without magic.”

“Like what?”

“Like... Here, sit here. On the ground. Don’t worry, it’s dry.”

Dean knelt obediently, taking Castiel’s hands as he did, because he simply wasn’t designed to sit down by himself without breaking his spine, or at the very least, spraining something. His leg was feeling better, but he wasn’t going to tempt another injury.

Castiel told him to wait, then he went inside again. Dean spent the minutes of quiet doing nothing but appreciating said quiet. He heard an owl hoot in the forest, and the colourful windmill in the flowerbed spinning around in the natural breeze, but there wasn’t much else to distract from the absolute infinity of the sky above him.

Palatinate purple turned to indigo, and Dean saw the stars begin to shine through the darkness. They were resilient lights, he thought. Always coming back to shine for another night.

Castiel emerged from the hut another minute later. “Sorry, I had to get some things.”

He flung yet another blanket over Dean, and then, on the leaves in front of him, he put down the book about stars. “I thought we could stargaze for a little while,” he said, catching Dean’s eye as he bent at the waist. In light so close to obscurity, his pupils were dilated, and Dean felt a rush inside him at the sight, despite knowing it had nothing to do with arousal. He nodded to Castiel, eager to spend more time talking with him.

Castiel sat down at Dean’s side, twisted at the hip so both his thighs pressed against Dean’s front right leg. His left arm banded over Dean’s deer shoulders, and Dean felt Castiel’s fingers playing with his fur as he reached forward and retrieved the book. The golden stars on the book glinted with the very last of the light, and when Dean looked up, he saw twice as many stars as he’d seen a minute ago.

“The air’s so clear,” he said in wonder. “I’m used to the cities; there’s coal smoke hanging over the sky the same way the clouds do here. I’ve never seen the stars this bright, not as far as I remember.”

“The cold makes it easier to see,” Castiel said. “I’m not entirely sure how, but I’m sure it does.”

Dean hummed, forgetting for a moment that he was a cervitaur, that he was incapacitated, that he was small and insignificant and trapped on Earth forever. “I think I know what you were getting at,” he expressed quietly to Castiel, who leaned casually against his side and shared his heat. “About feeling bigger when you see the sky, I mean.”

“If only it were possible for you to know how different I am like this, in this body,” Castiel said. “The sight of my true form would terrify you to madness, knowing how tonight’s display scared you. Now I’m glad I never asked if you wanted to see.”

Dean laughed softly, turning his head to peer down at the man beside him. “You wanted to ask?”

Castiel inclined his head, eyes falling to the book open on his lap. The star formations depicted within were easy to understand, like a children’s picture book. When Castiel looked up, he nodded. “It would have been very, um...” his eyes shifted away, “an intimate expression.” His chin lowered, and he smiled at the book again. “A lavish show of affection, I think. I don’t know what the human equivalent is, but I’m sure it would have been much like that.”

Dean smirked, feeling a swoop in his belly. “Hate to break it to you, but we bypassed normal human intimacy the first day we met.”

“Oh?” Castiel’s face was gleaming with starlight now. There was no moon in the sky yet; Dean’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and now he could see how raw Castiel looked in darkness. Innocent. It made Dean yearn for him more, so much it hurt.

“Naked,” Dean whispered. “When people are naked in front of someone else it’s special. Most of the time, that is. I was asleep and you took my clothes off.”

“Oh... I’m sorry,” Castiel looked away, swallowing. “Your coat was stretched out, I thought it would be uncomfortable for you to wear.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he turned his eyes to the stars, watching the Milky Way gleam in its shattered gallery of light. “It’s fine, Cas. I don’t mind.”

“...Good. Good, I’m glad. And relieved. I don’t know much about your customs. Jimmy wasn’t particularly social. He knew about making things and living for himself, and not much else.”

Dean gave a breathy laugh, which vanished once the first huff was out. He gulped, feeling his throat pull tight. “Yeah.”

Castiel shuffled, and Dean heard the book pages turning.

“This set of stars is a snake,” Castiel said. He pointed at several points in the sky, one after the other, but Dean couldn’t differentiate between one star and the next – or, for that matter, see why it was a snake.

“And this one, a horse with wings.”

“A pegasus,” Dean said, but again, he didn’t get why it looked like a horse. He pressed his lips together. He wanted to enjoy Castiel’s beloved hobby, but he just didn’t see it the same way.

“You know what I see when I look up there?” he asked, before Castiel could point out a celestial rabbit, or a duck, or some disjoined amphibian. “I see millions and millions of tiny lights. To me, lights are... guides. If you can see in the dark, you’re practically invincible. As a hunter, I can’t help love seeing stars. Or the moon. Sometimes hunting at night is the only option, because some monsters don’t like daylight. If you’re hunting at night, then you need stealth. Starlight can give you that, if you can’t risk burning a flame.”

“You see stars and you see practicality,” Castiel discerned.

Dean nodded, smiling up at all his patient guides. “They’re watching over me. Me and everyone else. Sam looks up at the stars and he sees the same lights. Makes me feel better, at least.” He turned to Castiel, giving him a smile he hoped Cas saw. “Sorry to knock your fairytales, though. Which one’s your favourite?”

Castiel took a small breath, like he had an answer prepared. “I think you would like it too,” he said, flipping pages until he found the one he wanted. Dean looked down, and was surprised to see Castiel holding the book open on the only formation Dean didn’t think he would have any trouble finding.

“That’s right there!” Dean pointed up, grinning at the silhouette of his arm, dangling with the blanket. His outstretched finger pointed to a place near the horizon, where three stars were lined up, equal distances apart. It was a simple pattern, and he’d noticed it before tonight.

“The picture is of a man with a bow,” Castiel said, lifting the book further so Dean could take it. Castiel leaned in close, his left shoulder pressed against Dean’s right. “I imagine he’s a hunter like you.”

“You got a light?” Dean asked over his shoulder, and Castiel hummed, rummaging in his breast pocket until he pulled out a set of matches. Dean struck a match while Castiel held the book, and they both flinched and made a sound of complaint as the bright flare struck their vision with pain.

“Got it,” Dean said, leaning down to squint at the page before the match could burn down. “Blah, blah, Milky Way, _the finest of all constellations_ , blah, blah. _Three bright stars in a slanting line form what is known as Orion’s belt._ Blah, blah, Sirius. I think that’s another star. And – wait, hands and feet?”

The match burned out, and Dean sighed. “Let’s try that again.”

He lit the match with practiced precision, and closed one eye against its overwhelming luminescence as he read the passage opposite the picture. “I think... the constellation as a whole is Orion. And those three are his middle, his belt. And— Whoa. He _is_ a hunter.”

Castiel made a pleased noise, and then the match died again. Dean didn’t light another; instead he handed the box back to Castiel and lay the book closed on his folded front legs.

Dean smiled up at Orion. “This whole time there’s been a hunter watching over me.”

“I think, when most people think of a hunter, they think of the kind who hunts deer.”

Dean tossed Castiel a playful look, but their sight had been ruined by the flame, so Castiel probably saw nothing of his expression. “I hunted a deer, once,” Dean said. “And look what happened.”

Castiel chuckled in amusement. His fingers began to lace through Dean’s fur again, and Dean felt a bump as Castiel leant his head against Dean’s bicep.

“I shouldn’t be glad the forest turned you,” Castiel said quietly. “But I am. I always wanted a friend, and now I have one, and I don’t ever want you to go. I’m sorry if that’s wrong.”

Dean gazed up at his watchful guide and he slung his arm around Castiel’s shoulders, resting his hand on his hair. “Guess we’re both a little wrong, then,” he said, feeling like all the twinkling stars were reflected inside him. Cas seemed to make everything sparkle.

Castiel took a long, deep breath, and Dean did too. The air was pure, and smelt like autumn leaves and September calmness.

Castiel broke the silence with a sultry whisper, “May I try something, Dean?”

Dean looked at him quickly, his heartbeats becoming strikes of hooves inside him, galloping on soft ground. “Sure.”

“Relax for me,” Castiel said. “Close your eyes.”

Dean did, unable to help the currents of excitement washing through him in steady pulses. When Castiel slipped away from under his arm, and Dean felt a hand on his face and a body against his front, his heart skipped a beat entirely; his lips parted, waiting or something he’d been waiting for his whole life. He tilted his head, mouth open, reaching for it—

His spine shifted, his head thumped, his back legs broke and he screamed in agony, falling forward.

“Oh no—” Castiel’s hands gripped Dean’s shoulders, gripping hard. “Hold on, Dean. I can— It’ll be okay, I can fix it. This is going to hurt. I’m sorry—”

Dean yelled into the night, and his scream echoed around the glen and got lost in the towering sky; his spine broke, he shrivelled into the leaves like a wasted plant. He arched backwards, eyes clenching as he felt Castiel’s hands hold him tight, his body weighing him down, his breath on his skin. “Try not to move, Dean. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

Dean began to cry, fingers clutching leaves, feeling his back deer legs spasming across the ground. The pain was excruciating, he could feel himself pulling tighter, his bones crushing together, his organs sliding upwards towards his heart. Muscle and sinew were forced out of the way as parts of him retracted, his _limbs_ moved on his skin, out of his control. He’d become a puppet and Castiel was pulling the strings, and Dean didn’t want to fight it, knowing it would be worse if he pulled away.

“Nearly,” Castiel whispered in haste. “Hold on, Dean.”

Dean broke out in what felt like a bleeding sweat as his legs snapped back into place, pushing him face-first into the ground; he knelt as if in worship, sprawled forwards in his weakness.

It stopped, at last. He shook, weeping into the leaves.

Castiel’s hands caressed his bare back, tender and soothing. The stroking hands made it to Dean’s skull, and Dean felt Castiel touch the antlers, which seemed to still be in place.

Castiel sighed. “Sit up, Dean. Let me hold you.”

Dean eased himself backwards, and his knees bent twice. He had two sets of knees... Perhaps one set were his ankles. He still had hooves; they dug into his thighs as he fell into Castiel’s embrace.

“Shh, shh,” Castiel hushed, one hand stroking Dean’s hair, one wrapping around his waist to support his lower back. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said lowly, pressing his forehead against Dean’s neck. “I tried... I wanted to see if I could heal you, make you human. I didn’t realise it would hurt.”

“What—” Dean struggled to form words, to breathe. “What ‘m I?”

“You’re a... faun. Deer legs and ears. Small antlers, human torso. Only one pair of legs though, which is definitely progress.”

Dean managed a tight smile on one side of his lips. “Thanks,” he said. Then he chuckled. “Next time, a little warning.”

“I did warn you! I asked if I could try something.”

Dean opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the stars. “I thought...” He swallowed. “Never mind what I thought. I wasn’t expecting what you did.”

Castiel exhaled, nosing at Dean’s neck from behind. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said, while not quite feeling fine yet. “It’s over now.”

“Over, yes. Until I try and transform you the rest of the way, that is,” Castiel said. “I’m hoping the next part will be easy. Faun to human. The worst part will be putting your legs right; the joints are placed higher in the leg, so for you it might seem like your knees bend the wrong way.”

Dean trembled in his dread, and Castiel hurriedly pulled a handful of blankets towards them, wrapping Dean up in one, then another. Dean turned in his lap and slipped his arms around him, sniffling against his shoulder. He would never want anyone else to see him like this, least of all his father. But Cas made him feel safe despite danger, and warm despite cold. He seemed like a good man to love, and Dean was glad he could trust him. If he didn’t have Cas, he suspected he would have died already, having withered away in the forest without soup or rest. Then again, if Cas hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened. Dean probably would have avenged all the dead people and gotten home by now.

He shouldn’t have been glad to have fallen so far. But, down in the depths of his failure, he’d found something worth failing for.

Castiel had to carry Dean to the couch, since deer legs were as well-suited to carrying upright humanoids as an ant was suited to carry a boulder. Dean groaned as he was laid down amongst the cushions. “Oh, I take it back,” he sighed, spreading his arms wide on the expanse of squishy softness. “This couch is Heaven.”

“I was hoping you’d never find out,” Castiel admitted, with a coy smirk. “I gave you my mattress and took the couch for myself, but I never told you the couch was infinitely more comfortable.”

“You’re forgiven,” Dean slurred, flopping onto his side and stretching across the pillows with a smile on his face. “Ugh, feels so good to have two legs again. Even if I am a goddamn invalid.” He waggled his legs awkwardly to prove his point, and Castiel leaned over the couch from behind and laughed, enjoying the satisfaction Dean got from the new change.

Dean rolled over onto his back, one arm curled over his head, the other posing his hand delicately on his stomach. He had a darkness in his eyes that Castiel didn’t recognise, and he didn’t think it was because of the low light. The fire was bright in here; Castiel had restocked its fuel before he’d taken his book outside, so it glowed orange and crackled cheerfully as Dean and Castiel gazed into each other’s eyes. If Castiel were to guess why Dean was looking at him like that, he would name it desire.

Castiel blinked a few times, wondering how accurate his guesses were when it came to human interaction. He’d been mostly right with Dean so far, but that might have just been because Dean made himself easy to read on purpose. He’d said so the other day. It was a form of self-protection, apparently. Anything Dean didn’t want someone to see, they didn’t see. His father had unwittingly instilled that instinct in him.

Castiel let his fingers play on Dean’s stomach, smiling when Dean’s fingers twined between his own and they held hands. The touch sent rivers of pleasure gushing through Castiel’s body, and he didn’t feel as surprised by it this time as he had been the other times. Touching Dean made him feel pleasant, so he kept seeking out opportunities to do it again. Dean appeared to like the contact too. It was natural.

Desire. Yes. Perhaps that was what it was. Dean didn’t give the impression he was trying to conceal it, and Castiel certainly wasn’t hiding anything.

Castiel gave Dean a warm smile, brushing his thumb against his navel. Dean’s breath stuttered, then began again. Then he blinked, and pushed himself up to sitting.

“Come sit,” Dean said. He cocked his head quickly, indicating the space beside him on the couch.

Castiel walked around the couch and sat on Dean’s left, his back supported by a cushion, his right arm held up to let Dean snuggle up beside him. Dean chuckled, a blush on his cheeks and a healthy shine in his eyes. His muscles moved fluidly as he pressed to Castiel’s side, his cheek resting on Castiel’s chest across from his heart, one hand going to feel his pulse, the other going to hold him, palm to palm.

Dean made a sound of content.

Oh, the intimacy of this was breathtaking. Castiel had never held anyone before. He’d never felt body heat against him, or felt so invigorated by the scent of someone else’s skin. It excited him as much as it made him relax.

Castiel began to touch Dean’s hair, fingers brushing through it, head turned to watch how the brown strands shimmied around his fingers, returning to their natural upright position when his fingers moved on. Dean’s antlers were only two inches long now, their second point no more than a bump halfway along the top ridge. Their velvet was soft as Castiel touched them, stroked them.

Dean let out a fast, shivering breath.

“Are you feeling okay now?” Castiel asked.

“Mm... Mm-hm,” Dean said, clearly tired. “‘M just thinkin’. About Jimmy.”

Castiel’s wide thumb grazed Dean’s cheek, awed by how smooth his skin was; it was nothing like Castiel’s weather-toughened hide. He swallowed, and lent his thoughts to Dean’s statement. He offered a reply: “Jimmy didn’t feel about you the way I do. For him, you were a friend. A follower, perhaps – I think he had grand plans to corrupt you with his wild ways.” Castiel smiled at the memory of Jimmy trying to teach Dean to set traps for rabbits. Dean had caught the rabbits and let them go before Jimmy found them. “You haven’t changed much,” Castiel said, recognising his pride for Dean.

Dean blinked slowly, shifting on the couch so he was pressed closer to Castiel. “I miss him,” Dean said. “Kinda sad he’s gone.”

Castiel took a long breath, filling his lungs completely as his vision blurred into distraction. “Me too,” he whispered, letting out his breath. He swallowed, finding his mouth had gone dry. “He was a unique boy. Brave, and strong. And knowledgeable, about some things. Other things, he knew next to nothing about. Not too different from myself, really.”

“Mm,” Dean said. It was a highly muffled sound, as he’d buried his face in Castiel’s clothes and appeared to be falling asleep.

“Dean,” Castiel said gently, stroking his hand through Dean’s hair. “Dean, would you like to go to bed now?”

“Mm,” Dean said again.

Castiel felt a surge of affection for his sleepy faun, and folded himself closer to press his cheek to the top of Dean’s head. “I’ll carry you to bed,” he said, then slipped off the couch and opened his arms for Dean, who reached up to take his shoulders.

Castiel carried Dean with his arms below his back and behind his furry thighs, barely straining under his weight at all. He had been heaviest as a deer, back when Castiel had first brought him to the hut, but with deer legs alone, he was now lighter than he would be as a human.

Castiel lay Dean down atop the mattress, resting him in the dip in its centre. Dean gave a mumbled hum of gratitude, eyes barely open. Castiel went to fetch the blankets, then returned to drape them over Dean. He then crouched, and stroked Dean’s cheek. “Sleep well, Dean.”

“Noo,” Dean complained, reaching out and batting a hand helplessly at Castiel’s ankles when he stood up to leave. “C’mere.”

“Hm? What do you want?”

Dean made the effort to open his eyes, and he gazed up at Castiel from his mattress, heavy fatigue on his face. “Stay with me,” he said, then shut his eyes.

Castiel hesitated – but then Dean pulled back the blankets on one side, and it became obvious what Dean meant.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He went and drank a glass of water to moisten his dry mouth, then he took his clothes off and folded them onto the couch. Then he lifted two pillows from the couch, and carried them to Dean’s bed. He lay down beside Dean, pulling back the covers and slipping under them, pleased to find the sheets were already warm from Dean’s body. He arranged one pillow under his own head, and the other at Dean’s back in case he rolled off the mattress in the night. Then he pulled Dean close by his bare hips and wrapped his arms around him. Hip to hip, naked and warm.

At the contact, Dean moaned a sound of unburdening, as if he’d been holding his breath for far too long, suffocating more than just his lungs, and he finally had air to breathe. He smiled as he nestled his head against Castiel’s chin, and his hands were miles from tentative as he slid his fingers against Castiel’s back to hold him.

The last thing he said before he fell asleep completely was, “Think I still havva tail. ...Mmmm, ‘s nice.”

And then he snored.


	10. Thunderfuck

Castiel didn’t need to sleep very often. He never dreamed. Five hours of rest once every few days tended to be enough, although he had needed more this past week. His time was usually divided between patrolling the forest and tending to the wildlife, communing with the spirits, and gardening, but now Dean was in his care, he’d had to fly to and from the outpost more times than he could remember (four times there and back, his mind helpfully supplied), procure incalculable amounts of extra firewood, not to mention go out of his way to harvest an immensely broad variety of vegetables, just so Dean’s meals didn’t get boring.

Dean ate as if whatever he put in his mouth was the first and best thing he’d ever tasted; his eyes would fall shut and he’d make pleased humming noises as he shovelled half-chewed mouthfuls down his throat. The promise of Dean’s enthusiasm gave Castiel the motivation to fly towards the mountains to pick snow peas, or to spend his power hurrying along the maturation of his winter squash plants. He’d even brought back a single ripe strawberry, preserved between his fingers with sweeping, silver strands of magic. Dean had eaten the fruit so slowly Castiel thought he might never have had a strawberry in all his life.

The point was, Castiel didn’t mind that he had to put in the extra effort, and had subsequently been made tired. No, he didn’t mind one iota. Especially not, because now Castiel could watch Dean sleeping in his arms.

The swell of Dean’s red lips parted on the pillow, and his eyelashes flickered at the coloured cloth as he twitched. He mumbled, shifting under the blankets. Castiel pulled him closer, feeling a dense pleasure in his heart at their proximity, at Dean’s heat, and the way one of Dean’s furry legs had slipped between Castiel’s and crooked backwards to anchor himself there.

Castiel shut his eyes to rest, smiling as he fed easily off Dean’s aura. There was so much love in him, it seemed to seep out of his skin and flow straight into Castiel. It left Castiel feeling incredible, so full of power he thought he might glow. But he went on resting, his nose pressed to Dean’s forehead to breathe in his familiar scent. Dean charged him, and Castiel held him protected as he did.

After an hour or so, Dean stirred, and his right hand slid up to touch the pillow. Castiel’s breath ghosted over Dean’s skin, but Dean didn’t stir again.

Castiel’s eyes sank to look at the silver bracelet adorning Dean’s wrist. It was thin, made of tiny linked circles, and on every few links, there was an additional link, from which dangled the charms. Castiel observed a five-pointed star inside a circle, a Christian cross, one that looked like an eye with a swooping tear from its corner, and two – no, three others, two with complicated curls and one with interlocking triangles.

Apparently feeling foolhardy, Castiel slipped a hand away from Dean’s hip, skimming up to touch Dean’s forearm. His skin was bed-warm, dusted with hair so fine it seemed invisible. He had firm muscle in his arm, which was satisfying to touch; delight collected up in Castiel’s abdomen, making him clench his buttocks for no understandable reason. His eyes feasted on the sight of Dean’s relaxed fingers, Dean’s own breath being herded into his palm. Castiel moved to touch the bracelet, forgetting for a moment it would burn him.

He recoiled, mouth clamped shut and his body tensed all over, trying his utmost to keep from crying out and waking Dean. He breathed hard, glaring at the second red line seared across his finger. It matched the one on the finger right beside it, and he silently scolded himself for being so thoughtless.

So. Gods were vulnerable to whatever power Dean’s bracelet contained.

The idea that there were other gods on Earth had absorbed Castiel ever since Dean had first suggested it. Dean never spoke too well of his own intelligence; he’d said the fact he hadn’t been incinerated yet had nothing to do with his clever decisions, but to do with the bracelet. Castiel had to disagree: the fact Dean had made such a conclusion, made those connections, and pulled a believable theory from what seemed like nothing proved he was, in fact, one of the smartest, if not _the_ smartest person Castiel had ever known to exist. Granted, Castiel didn’t know many people at all, but Dean had certainly impressed him.

Castiel rubbed at his sore fingertip and considered all the questions that rose from the theory hypothetically proving true. Gods on Earth. Why? Why would they come here? Why were they killing people?

He didn’t have a good answer. He could recognise the attack style of his siblings without difficulty, however; unnecessary death was their forte. Unwilling sacrifice, they liked that sort of thing. Murder.

Yet, it was all a theory. Currently, there was no evidence in Black Hills Forest that definitively indicated the presence of other gods.

Castiel sighed and rolled onto his back, gazing up at the darkened rafters of his hut. The open jaws of an opossum skeleton sneered down at him, spinning gently on its threads. The firelight flickered, casting the shadows of teeth across the dangling bottles, across the green plant leaves which spilled from their suspended pots.

There was an easy way to find out whether Castiel’s siblings were killing the townsfolk. Castiel had been exiled, yes, but he still had an open connection to the Meridian. So long as he remained a god, he would always have that connection. Perhaps the portal would be guarded against him, but there was also a chance it wasn’t. All he wanted was the answer to a question: were the gods mining on Earth?

The question sent a fearful anxiety churning in his stomach, and he rested the back of his hand over his forehead, swallowing hard.

Why was he afraid of them?

Well. Perhaps it was because the gods were more powerful than he was, even individually, and there were thirty of them and only one of him.

He tried not to think _I’m better than them,_ but the thought wouldn’t leave his mind. That was why they cast him out, was it not? Vanity. Too self-assured that the old ways were not the best ways. How was he to know what was best for the Meridian’s future, when all he was good at was making it rain?

He’d long suspected – and his belief rang true now more than ever before – that had he not been exiled for his troublemaking, he would have found a way to escape anyway. Gods were not good company. Castiel had always liked quiet plants and fluffy animals, so it wasn’t an overreach to say that gods were never his kind of people.

But he remained afraid. He didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to look upon everything he’d left behind. If the cost was that he could never stop the killings...

Guilt and fear sat heavy in his chest. Clenching, binding.

He looked to his left and gazed upon the face of humanity, complete with his drool and broken, snuffly snores. Castiel felt the crushing weight in his chest lift a little. Dean made him feel better. Feel bigger. He was good to be near.

Blinking in thought, Castiel curled closer once again, smoothing his hurt fingers past Dean’s temple, stretching into his hair. His thumb stroked the appled peak of Dean’s cheek, soft skin and freckles pulling at the touch.

Would it hurt to transform him this time? Castiel wondered.

He supposed it hurt last time because his power had drained somewhat, having turned from a human to a bird to a dog, then an alpaca, followed by a squirrel, and at last, back to a human – and then he’d conjured a storm, all within a few short hours. It came as no great surprise that a low power reserve had led to a weak transformation. He felt terrible for instigating the transformation without being sure he could do it, but he was glad Dean forgave him. He was not yet sure he forgave himself.

Castiel was not too tired to use his magic now, however. And Dean was asleep, so he would be mostly unaware of a change.

Castiel summoned self-assurance from a place deep within him, and with his jaw set in determination, he cupped his right hand completely to Dean’s cheek, his left pressing to Dean’s heart under the blanket.

Shutting his eyes, Castiel pushed his transformative magic through his hands and into Dean. Dean gave a sudden mumble, but didn’t wake.

_Affection,_ Castiel thought to himself. _Focus on the affection between you and this will be gentle._

He opened his eyes and gazed at Dean’s beautiful face, breathing against his chin as he felt a surge of adoration for him. The surge translated to magic; Dean kicked his legs under the covers.

“Come on,” Castiel urged at a whisper. “So close.”

Dean awoke. Before he was even fully conscious, he found himself addressing the obvious sensation of being human again. He sighed in relief, then opened his eyes part way, blinking as his vision adjusted to the firelight. The mattress, the pillow, the strong arms around him – it was all so peaceful and warm. He swallowed, then smiled as he saw Castiel gazing at him.

“Hey. You’re watchin’ me sleep?” Dean drawled in a sleep-dense voice, raising an eyebrow.

Embarrassed, Castiel averted his gaze, but his eyes didn’t go far; his attention settled on Dean’s mouth, and as Dean’s breath drifted out from between his parted lips, Castiel became absorbed with the sight.

“...You know that’s kinda weird, right?” Dean whispered shyly. It felt strange to hear his words form like that, all husky and small. He was all too aware he was lying in the arms of another man, both of them naked. Dean had wanted for years to know what such an embrace would feel like, and now he knew.

Castiel’s eyes flicked back up, and Dean held his stare. Such a beautiful shade of blue peered back at him, pupils embellished by reefs of silver, rimmed by a perfect circle of black.

Oh... Dean felt funny inside. Good funny. He liked looking at Cas that way.

This was so _exciting_.

Castiel’s gaze lingered, and lingered. On Dean’s mouth, then his eyes again. A feeling of exhilaration flipped about in Dean’s belly, too low down to attribute to nervousness. He felt tense, and yet so at ease that his mind cleared of worries, and he gave himself to the moment. Every second of this was precious, and he wanted to memorise this feeling.

Castiel swallowed, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Is this strange for you?” he asked gently, a small frown appearing then disappearing from between his eyebrows. “Would you prefer if I looked away?”

Dean shook his head ever so slightly, feeling the skin of his throat tuck up against his jaw. His breath wouldn’t come steadily any more, it was catching too often, coming too hot. He could feel a warm, aching, _throbbing_ sensation between his legs, and it was incredibly distracting. Zealousness surrounded him with a slow twist, unwinding and tightening at once. He trembled, then stifled a breathy moan as he was overtaken by a feeling that was undeniably arousal.

His outburst caused Castiel to shift away from him. “What, what’s wrong?” Castiel asked, blinking as Dean’s groggy gaze rolled to meet his.

“No, nothin’, it’s nothin’,” Dean grumbled bashfully. He pressed the side of his too-hot face against the pillow, eyes still on Castiel. His eyes widened, and a tiny smirk curled upwards, body thrumming all over as he noticed Castiel’s eyes had become dark.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Castiel asked in a low voice, inching himself closer. He rested his nose less than an inch away from Dean’s, and Dean nudged at it, lips parted to steal some of his air.

“Like what?” Dean whispered, feeling heat and magnetism drawing his hips closer to Castiel. His eyes roamed the other man’s face, gaze lingering on his mouth and the tip of his pink tongue as it darted out to put a shine on his lips. Dean then watched Castiel’s eyes, seeing the blackness of his pupils eclipse another bit of blue.

“Like...” Castiel’s breath had hitched, and Dean heard the pause. He felt passion rising in him again, wanting to take what he ached for so dearly. But he waited. “Like you want something.”

Dean chuckled, eyes closing, chin tilting towards his chest. “I, um.” He shifted in the bed, feeling his erection pressing between his thighs. He bit his lip, then looked back at Castiel’s curious expression. “I’m human now.”

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“I can tell without looking,” Dean said, shifting again, trying to resist the urge to simply grab Castiel and run his hands over his skin. He swallowed, then let out a quaking breath. “I recognise how it feels. Human parts. Human... feelings.”

Castiel cast a quick glance downwards, like he couldn’t be sure Dean really meant what it sounded like he meant. Dean felt his cheeks flush, arousal getting into his head. God, he wanted Cas to touch him between his legs. Touch him all over.

...Kiss him.

Castiel’s eyes skittered away, to a distant part of the hut, then back. “You’re free now,” he said. “You could leave, if that’s what you want. You’re human, there’s no need for you to stay.” He turned his face away from Dean’s; he couldn’t bear to see him making the choice.

But Dean almost scoffed – he’d made his choice already. “I’m not going anywhere, Cas.” He found Castiel’s hand between the warmth of their bodies, and their fingers separated each other, locking together.

Castiel’s face lifted to Dean’s, wearing an expression of confusion.

Dean realised he might need to clarify. “I want to be here,” he said, nosing at Castiel’s cheek, mouthing against his lips as their eyes locked. “With you.”

Castiel’s eyebrows raised a short way. “Oh.”

Dean shut his eyes halfway, licking his lips slowly. He let Castiel think about what _he_ wanted, and Dean’s whole body rushed with sparkling excitement as he felt Castiel’s fingers reach to touch his cheek.

Castiel wore a delicate frown, worshipping Dean’s burning skin with his cooler fingers. Dean made a little desperate sound, he couldn’t help it—

His lips were touched by Castiel’s. A soft press. Dean’s heart thudded furiously as he searched for another kiss, pushing into Cas’ mouth, lips on lips, hot air sneaking between them.

Dean broke off to pant for breath. Eyes dark. Watching Castiel recover.

“Oh,” Castiel said again. Dean laughed and groaned and kissed him again, rolling him onto his back so Dean could tilt his head against him, could open his mouth wide and sigh into it, murmuring with his need. Their kiss rolled, heated, _passionate_ – perhaps a little wet.

Castiel’s hands held Dean’s hips while Dean’s legs opened over Castiel’s waist; Dean sank down and cried out under his breath at the feeling of his erection touching flesh. Castiel’s skin was fantastically hot – and there was so much contact. Dean could feel Castiel’s breath moving his chest, and his penis swelling against Dean’s buttocks. “Oh-hooo, shit,” Dean said, tense all over. “Ah—! Oh my God. Oh—”

Castiel looked so perplexed, and Dean supposed neither of them knew what they were doing – this was essentially Dean’s first time too. But Dean knew how to make himself feel good – it shouldn’t be too different making Cas feel the same.

“So strange,” Castiel whispered, halting their kisses for a moment, shifting his legs apart as Dean pressed himself against him. “I-I’ve— oh...”

Experiencing both lust and emotional bond was too much for Dean; he was dizzy, burning up, ready to burst already. And yet, he wanted more than kisses and all these gentle touches Cas returned to giving him, tentative and unsure and bold all at once. Dean trembled in his hands, licking along his tongue and scratching his lips on his stubble. Dean had expected Cas’ taste to inspire thoughts of blue or silver, but it was not so: his mouth tasted like paprika, sweet and spicy and warm, just like Dean’s favourite foods.

Head full of spice, Dean’s vision was red longing; the sight of Cas’ face shimmered in firelight and gold. Dean was warm right through, alight with prurience all the way to his toes. He moaned and wrestled his way closer, cheek pressing to Castiel’s, a hand behind his neck, the other tangling in Castiel’s hair. He mouthed at him, keening at the pressure of it, the way it sent lights dancing down his spine, spiralling to his fingertips.

Dean went on shivering, boiling hot, hypnotised by his own movement: his hips thrust down low, rocking forwards while his shoulders were raised. He felt the tingling thickness between them, the hot shapes of their gentials sliding and nudging, unseen beyond where their bellies skimmed together. Dean put his weight on his hands, watching the way Castiel squirmed and kept breaking the kiss to look under the blanket as if he didn’t understand why he was blushing and making tiny sounds of bliss while Dean rubbed against him. Maybe Jimmy never knew about sex, maybe Castiel had never felt attraction or physical pleasure before. Maybe—

Castiel yelled and shot backwards, breathing hard as his hand shot to grasp his right shoulder. His eyes watered as he looked at it. Just as Dean reached for him worriedly, he slid his hand away, and Dean saw what had happened: Castiel’s shoulder had a burn on it, a red dagger strike across the skin.

“Shit, my bracelet...”

Castiel got his breathing under control, and his wide eyes lifted to Dean’s, apologetic.

“Don’t know why you’re lookin’ at me like that,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“But we’re... We were being intimate. And I’ve ruined it.”

“Nothing’s ruined.” Dean sat back on his haunches, relieved his legs bent the correct way. He pulled the blanket into his lap to cover his erection – he may have been in the middle of expressing some very potent longings, but that didn’t prevent him from feeling shy. When modest, he set his fingers to his wrist and undid the delicate catch on the bracelet. “I’m so sorry, Cas,” he breathed, eyes lowered as he inched past Castiel and lay the bracelet down onto the tiles. It made a tiny spiral there, and Dean hoped it wouldn’t get lost.

He turned to Castiel, and was taken aback to see an abundance of emotion on his face. Tears gleamed in his eyes, his lower lip failing to hide its quiver.

“What, what is it?” Dean asked, sinking close again and resting his naked body against Castiel’s.

“You trust me,” Castiel whispered, eyes closing. He opened them again and peered up at Dean, parting his fingers as he stroked them back through his hair. “You trust me not to hurt you.”

Dean tried to scoff, but his breath only tumbled out softly. “Of course,” he said, smiling at Cas, leaning down to give his lips a gentle kiss. “Cas, of course I trust you.”

Castiel swallowed, both hands in Dean’s hair now. Dean rested a thigh between Castiel’s, kneeling forward on the mattress with his weight across the other man, hands bracketing his lover’s head. That was what Cas was now, a lover. Dean felt so happy he didn’t know what to do with the feeling. It was radiant, and it seemed to link the two of them, as if there were literally webs of shining happiness stretching between their bodies.

He felt a rush of exhilaration, and fell into a long, breathless kiss. Head still buzzing and lips still tingling, he lifted his head to whisper, “Is it too late to take you up on that offer?”

“Which offer?”

Dean nibbled at Castiel’s lip, following up with a quick smooch. He smiled against him, rocking down but remaining unmoved. “Wanna see what’s under there. I bet it’s beautiful.”

Castiel smirked, but it was wary. “Are you sure you could take that, Dean?”

“I’m not scared of you,” Dean insisted, pressing forward again, sending a bolt of fervent pleasure through him, making him gasp. “I... Cas, I wanna... Oh...”

They lost each other in shared affections for a while, but when Dean surfaced, he was filled with darkness and hunger. “Please,” he breathed. “C’mon, Cas. Take me all the way to the stars.”

Castiel took a deep breath, considering it. And then he smiled widely, kissed Dean full on the lips, wrapped him up tight in his arms, and the whole world turned to flame.

Dean floated. Naked, aroused. It was like nothing had changed. Except he wasn’t in Cas’ hut any more, he was alone.

It wasn’t hot, or cold, and he couldn’t feel anything.

He opened his eyes, and saw saffron yellow. His surroundings were big, but he couldn’t tell how big. Bigger than a cathedral, at the very least. The space swirled like the steam over a mug of brewing tea – but it differed in that there was no background to it. Single stars sparkled every now and again, four points of light emerging from each dot before receding to obscurity once more.

Dean was drifting in nothing, and he didn’t know where he was, or what had happened.

The logical part of his brain told him he’d been betrayed. He’d trusted Cas and it had gotten him killed, just like everyone else who went missing. Taking his bracelet off his been a mistake. Letting Cas have his way was a mistake.

However, Dean didn’t wish to listen to reason at a time like this. He’d fallen in love and love didn’t snuff out like a candle did, not even when it was puffed at.

So he wriggled in his nothingness, and discovered he could sit up. He looked down, and was pleased to see his human body was intact, although seeing his erection sitting there all hopeful was disconcerting when the space _below_ his open legs was infinite.

Scatters of pink blended into the yellow, spreading from vapour, the same way clouds formed. Dean had watched plenty of clouds in his life, so he knew the pattern.

Dean licked his lips, peering around. There was no sound here, and no visual features other than starshine and twirls of pink.

He took a breath – there was air to breathe – and he called, “Cas?”

His voice did not echo. Not even a little.

His ears started to whine, upset by the intensity of the silence.

Then, to his right, there appeared a bulbous, rolling cloud of purple. Dean’s heart began to pound again. He breathed faster, seeing the shape making its way towards him. How far away was it? It could have been tiny and no more than twenty feet away, or it could have been a million miles across and soaring towards him at a speed too great to comprehend. It was hard to resist terror, for the feeling grasped him with cold hands and shook him.

“Cas?” Dean said again, hearing the tremor in his voice. “Cas, are you there?”

_Yes;_

Dean gasped, looking around for the source of the voice. It did not sound like Jimmy; it did not sound like anything. It didn’t even sound male, or like a _voice_. It was just a word that had existed, and now it didn’t exist any more.

“Um— Are— Are you...?”

_This is my true form._

Dean watched the purple clouds turn into a sweep of smoke, wispy and smooth as it launched upwards, then curved down in a swallow’s dive. Dean gasped loudly as he saw the shape of a bird in the smoke, and the bird turned on an updraft to approach him.

Dean scrambled back, kicking a retreat, but he moved five feet and he was still there. The bird was a hundred feet across, and swooped over his head, talons turning to dust and sparkles as they caught his shoulders. Dean shouted, wide eyes watching the bird turn to approach him once more.

_You do not have to be afraid;_

_You’re safe here, Dean._

The bird perched on Dean’s knee. It was the size of a sparrow.

Dean stared at it. It morphed from purple to blue, then shed a layer of smoke in a hurried flap of its wings. It had blue eyes, and it tilted its head. _Hello, Dean,_ it said.

Dean laughed in a helpless exhale, fingers reaching to pet the bird. Castiel chirruped, in a way Dean understood: the sound came from his mouth.

The bird set its head upright, then spread its wings and took off. It disappeared into a purple light only a second later, and Dean gasped in concern. “Cas?!”

_; right here,_

Dean’s head whipped around so fast he got dizzy, but he composed himself the moment he saw Castiel’s naked human form hanging in the air beside him, the older and more handsome Jimmy, silver light in his eyes and in his mouth. He smiled at Dean, and Dean nervously smiled back.

_I believe we were in the middle of something,_ Castiel said, scooting along Dean’s body, hands touching him but offering him no sensual input whatsoever. It was like he wasn’t even there.

“I can’t feel you,” Dean said, trying to touch Castiel’s skin but watching his fingers slip right through him. “You’re a ghost.”

_I am a god._

“Yeah, I—” Dean laughed, “I get that. Kinda hard not to notice.”

Castiel grew – _Jimmy_ grew – and Dean nearly screamed; Castiel was a giant before him, his hands able to scoop Dean up in a rush of coloured smoke. Dean was lifted to Cas’ face, and he hyperventilated as Castiel gazed at him, a fond smile on his lips.

Then Castiel dispersed, and Dean spasmed, expecting to fall – but he didn’t move, and everything went back to how it had been a minute ago.

“Cas, where’d you go?” Dean called to the empty swirls of yellow and pink. He turned over onto his front, startled at not having anything to catch him. It scared him to see so much empty space. If this whole thing was Cas, it looked like Cas went on forever.

A thunderstroke hit the realm, and Dean yelled aloud before he could stop himself. Lightning shattered the sky, the space, whatever it was. Thunder joined it in a harmony, singing a bass under the lightning’s white-hot sizzle, a cymbal clash.

“Cas—”

_Let me show you, Dean. Let me show you pleasure._

“P- Pleasure?” Dean whispered in disbelief. Solar winds swept around him, glittering light falling, sparks falling. It was all the chaos of a forming thunderstorm rendered asunder, impossible colours raining across Dean’s vision like comets, fiery tails twirling with rainbows in halos, like smoke rings. He could hear it now, he could hear everything. His own heartbeat seemed to regulate the tempo of his surroundings; thunder rolled on his breaths, lightning struck musical notes every time he blinked his eyes, and he saw their shapes seared into his retinas. Lightning struck in circles.

_Dean_

_—don’t you want to know how a god shows their affections?_

Dean laughed madly, turning himself back and making himself fall, losing all sense of up or down; there was no gravity, and every spatial vision was no reference for another. He swam through his space, twirling until he drifted, arms spread, gazing out at the glorious mountains of thunder he saw. He could see sound, now.

This could be the most spectacular dream, or it could be real.

He liked to think it was real.

“Give it to me,” Dean whispered. Excitement flared bright inside him, his own personal lightning storm. “I want it, Cas.”

_—you want me?_

Dean bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah. You.”

_All right,_ came the voice, low and patient. Yet, somehow, Dean could discern a note of thrill. Cas was getting excited too, and Dean realised he couldn’t wait to find out how this would happen.

_Are you ready, Dean?_

Dean nodded eagerly. “Mm-hm.” A gulped, biting his lip. “C’mon,” he whispered, touching his penis as he felt it swelling again. “Waitin’ for you, Cas.”

_Don’t be scared._

“I’m not sc—”

A sensation filled Dean. _Filled_ him. Not in his body or his vision or his thoughts or _anything_ , but he felt it. It was behind his eyes and in the beds of his fingernails and running in the soles of his feet. Dean arched backwards and cried out, laughing, feeling another surge of it consume him.

“Auuuhgh—” Dean shouted into the oblivion around him, eyes losing their sight, breath stopping. He screamed again and the sound ricocheted inside his own mind. Cas was in there too, he was part of Dean.

Castiel touched Dean’s heart and made it glow. _You have a light inside you, Dean,_ he said, speaking into Dean’s veins so he heard in in his thighs, in his nose. _Let me share your light. Let me— Oh..._

“...You’re _thunder_ ,” Dean gasped, hearing the roll of it down his spinal cord. It shook him like the universe was falling apart; skies darkened to black and the yellow vanished. Pink and turquoise continued to play against infinity, but Dean was barely watching, he was too lost in the ecstasy made by Cas’ touch.

The vibration filled him up, spiking him with light and sound and feeling; his head tipped back as he went on floating in this empty vacuum. But it wasn’t empty, so far from it.

Cas? Cas was endless space, the light that never touched anything real. A god, an indescribable being. Dean would never understand. He wasn’t capable of understanding.

But Cas was _in_ him, and that he could understand.

Cas sank within, pouring sensation into all those filthy places that humans had. Dean’s mouth, his anus, the hollow of his throat, brushing the tips of his fingers. Holding him there, keeping him level with climax. Dean was going crazy from it, but so was Castiel. There was never anything more beautiful.

Dean was spread open because the storm wanted him.

And the storm wanted to touch Dean, touch him how he was used to being touched. Physical, so physical. But there was so much more than touch happening here. Castiel wanted to be loved how Dean knew love, because to have Dean’s love was to have power, and this space, this endless, contorting wilderness of impossibility – this was his expression.

_This gives me –_ life _, Dean;_

_You’ll never understand how much your love provides me. Genuine... Oh, honest love,_

_—my love. Care and giving and_ tender _ness. Please— You are—_

Graceful in spirit, like the deer. Like the stag he was only days before. The hart.

The hart of the storm.

“Cas!”

Dean cried out in his shock as he looked down, seeing his deer legs floating in the abyss. He kicked them, trying to will them away, but Castiel hushed him.

_This is your true form,_ Castiel said. _You are magnificent._

“I’m not a deer!” Dean yelled, interrupting his own pleasure to kick his legs around in complaint. “That makes no sense, I’m a human! I was born a human! Turn me back!”

“I didn’t do anything,” Castiel said, appearing at his side, looking like Jimmy, talking like Jimmy. He blinked, reaching a hand to calm Dean. Dean sighed and relaxed as he felt the hand caress his soft nose, and he wriggled closer, pushing right up against Castiel’s side for comfort.

Castiel hummed happily and hugged him, pressing his cheek to Dean’s fur. His hand banded around an antler, and Dean could feel it was fully-grown, hard bone. Both of his antlers were probably completely symmetrical.

“Never getting over this,” Dean said. “Thunderfucked a god while looking like a woodland grass-eater. Heh. This one’s gonna be hard to explain to Sam.”

Castiel laughed, putting a soft kiss on Dean’s furry nose. Dean lifted his face and nosed him back, not really a kiss, but recognisable as an affectionate gesture.

Dean opened his eyes and his vision met with blue. He was instantly overwhelmed with starbursts of sentiment erupting from inside him, casting a beautiful sheen across Castiel’s face.

He was glowing?!

God, it felt good.

...Dean blinked in confusion. If this was climax, it was an odd one. It wasn’t sexual at all. It was... kind of... warm and cuddly and satisfying. He smiled at Cas and felt happy. Really, really happy. So happy he thought he might cry.

Castiel leaned close and put another little kiss on Dean’s nose, closing his eyes as he did.

Dean sighed in delight and shut his eyes too, and then he was falling—

Dean rolled off the mattress, breathing hard, raw in his throat. He knelt on his hands and knees, head down as his vision returned to normal. The room was spinning.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice was thick, like he hadn’t spoken for days. Dean looked to his left, and saw Castiel blinking at him through squinted eyes, his hair mussed from the bed. “Dean, are you all right?”

Dean managed a tiny smile, nodding. He blinked a few times, registering that Castiel’s face was lit only by daylight.

Dean swung his head to the right, catching his breath enough to sit back, buttocks against his heels. The view through the arched window showed a calm autumn morning, with sunlight slanted through the treetops, barely a cloud in the sky.

“Wasn’t it night when we started?” Dean looked back at Castiel, swallowing. His voice had come out as dense as Castiel’s had. “How long were we – wherever we were? Gone?”

Castiel sat up in bed, looking incredibly rumpled, and very attractive, naked with the blankets pooled around his waist. He licked his lips, staring ahead of him. Then he crawled forward, raising his buttocks. Dean crawled back onto the mattress, watching where Castiel had stretched his arm.

Castiel put his hand into the fireplace ash. “Cold,” he said. “Not even an ember.”

“It would still be warm if it burned down from last night,” Dean said, too fast, suddenly scared they’d been gone for years. It seemed possible – _anything_ seemed possible after what he’d experienced. He’d been brought to climax by a multicoloured thunderstorm. He still felt the flutter of excitement in him, in awe of the memory.

Castiel brushed the ash off his hands, and it streamed down to the hearth in a hiss of particles. Castiel’s eyes turned to Dean, and he pressed his lips together in a reassuring gesture. “By my estimate, we haven’t been gone for more than a day. Two days at the most.”

Dean shivered in relief and yet more awe. “That’s why I’m so hungry,” he muttered.

He caught Castiel’s gaze and they stared, and stared. Then they smiled together. They’d shared something wonderful, and they relived the best parts as they looked into each other’s eyes.

“You’re amazing,” Dean said, with a soft nod to Castiel. “You’ve completely changed my whole _world_ , Cas. I don’t know how else to say it.”

Castiel’s eyes shone with appreciation, and he lowered his head, reaching out his hand to take Dean’s. Dean didn’t mind the leftover ash; the touch was warm, and more welcome than ever. “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said. “You, too, have altered my perception of humanity, and of magic and life in general. I will be forever grateful.”

Dean chuckled, shifting closer until he pressed close to Castiel’s side. He lowered his head and kissed Cas’ shoulder, then rested his cheek there. “Downside of being gone is that I didn’t get to write to Sam. I figure he’s gotten my letter now. The first one you posted for me, I mean. Saying I’m fine. He was probably worried sick.”

“After you’ve eaten, perhaps you could write another one.”

“Mm, good plan,” Dean smiled, taking a deep breath, starting to grin as he formed another plan. “How about I make breakfast today? Then I wanna go look for those missing people. It’s about time, right?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Hell no,” Dean chuckled. “I just slept for nearly two whole days, I’m gonna be awake for a week.”

Castiel made a sound of interest. “In that case, Dean, I would be delighted to taste your cooking. And to accompany you on your quest.”

Dean lifted his head. “You still want to help me, then.”

Castiel sighed in exasperation, still smiling. “How is it not obvious already, Dean? I want to do anything in my power to help.” His eyes darted towards the end of the mattress, where the bracelet remained spiralled on the tiles. “I will admit... I do have some reservations about contacting my kin. But if we find evidence to link them to the disappearances, then by all means... I will deal with my fear the way you dealt with yours. By facing it.” Castiel gave him a determined look, jaw squared and eyes emboldened. “We will find those people, Dean. Dead or alive, we will find them.”

Dean felt his heart racing again, this time purely because Castiel’s ferocity set him aflame, in so many ways. Dean framed Cas’ face with his hands and planted a big kiss on his lips, sighing as he did. He pulled off, smiling widely. “Yeah,” he said, partly to himself. “I fell for the right guy.”

Castiel beamed, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Hm. So did I.”


	11. Following the Pied Piper of Black Hills

Sam stepped off the train platform with his bag slung over his shoulder. Mid-morning sunlight gave the outpost’s street a lukewarm haze, encouraging the odor of oxen dung to infiltrate the air. He took a breath; it smelled bad, but it smelled familiar, and he needed familiarity right now.

He walked down the street with purpose, head turning one way then the other. He saw people look his way – the blacksmith paused in his work to glance up and take a drag on his cigarette, a cook poured dishwater into the street and raised her head to consider Sam with wary eyes, the pawnbroker swept his porch free of broken glass, and glared at Sam when his shadow blotted out the sparkles on the wood for a split second – but nobody approached. Nobody seemed to recognise him. That was understandable; he didn’t recognise any of them, either.

Sam headed straight for Missouri’s house.

He stood in the angled shadow of it, looking up at its front. It was a tall, plain structure, embellished with black woodcuts under the windows and bordering the roof. The entire house was pressed like a flower between the butcher’s store on the right ( _going out of business_ , said the sign on the window) and Missouri’s own haberdashery shop on the left ( _closed until further notice_ ).

Sam rapped his knuckles on the door, then stood back and anxiously stretched his fingers.

There was no answer. A chicken meandered past Sam’s feet, pecking at grit and clucking.

Sam licked his lips and turned his eyes swiftly down the street, left then right. A groaning wind pushed past him, and the chicken startled and hurried away. Sam took his bag off, stuck his hand into one of its pockets, and pulled out a pair of fine metal tools.

He picked the lock, checking again that nobody was watching. His exhales blurred his vision; clouds of vapour poured from his mouth in the cold. He held his breath. Soon the door clicked open, jarred by half an inch.

Sam grinned, put his lockpicks back into his bag, and stepped into the house.

Shadows hung in every corner, and the window at the back of the single downstairs room was howling; wind crept through the tiny gap and sank into an empty home. The chilly air smelt of warmth gone stale, the same way Missouri’s summer wardrobe used to smell when she pulled it out of storage in springtime. Sam shut the door behind him, now even more deeply concerned. Missouri was not here, and had not been here for several days.

The dining table in the centre of the room was stacked with dry food, like it was ready to be packed away. Tin cans were arranged in a pyramid, alongside dehydrated meat and stale bread. It was too dark to see anything else, so Sam reached for the matches and candles on the table. He lit a candle. The flame flickered in the moving air – this place was drafty, and had always been drafty.

Sam saw a collection of opened letters beside the stack of food. His heart leapt as he recognised Dean’s handwriting.

The front door slammed open, the candle went out, and Sam spun around to see a wild-haired silhouette in the doorway.

“Who goes there!” shouted the silhouette.

Sam let go of the candle. “Sam Winchester!” he said, watching the figure come inside and shut the door. The wind dropped to a whistle, and another match was struck. The house’s invader lifted the light, and Sam saw the woman’s eyes had unhealthy shadows in the sockets, and the muscles in her cheeks were thinning.

“Sam,” the woman said. She laughed gently, which was partly unnerving, partly reassuring. “I’m Charlotte Bradbury. My friends call me Charlie.”

Sam slowly lowered his hands. “Okay? Nice to meet you.”

Charlie went forwards, and Sam stepped back in a hurry. Charlie crouched down and picked up the candle Sam had dropped, and with the last of the match’s light, she relit the candle wick. It gave a steady glow this time, fluttering as Charlie stuck it into a holder on the table.

“You don’t live in this house,” Sam said. “Do you?”

“You don’t either,” Charlie said, raising an eyebrow. She had a Scottish accent, and she seemed a little cheeky, bright-willed despite her obvious sickness. “What are you doing in here, Sam?”

“Looking for my brother,” Sam said. He put a hand possessively on the letters on the table, shifting them closer to him. “His name is Dean—”

“Dean, yes. I know. He came here to help us, but got into some trouble. He’s been writing to Missouri while he recovers.”

With his heart in his throat, Sam lifted the first letter and turned his side to Charlie, resting his rear against the table so the candlelight brightened the off-white paper.

“ _Dear Momma,_ ” Sam read. “ _Cas is off getting fresh firewood at the moment—_ ” Sam blinked. “Who’s Cas?”

“Dean’s friend,” Charlie said, snatching the letter from Sam before he’d even read two lines. “This was sent a day ago. Your brother is totally fine.”

“Wh— Really?”

Charlie nodded. “He’s safe.”

Sam let out a huge sigh of relief, running a hand back through his hair. “Thank God.”

“Thank _a_ god, is more like it. Look, Sam, I get that you’re concerned about your brother, but you ought to be aware: Dean doesn’t know Missouri is missing. Dean himself is fine and dandy, but the rest of the town? Not so much.”

“How long has Missouri been gone? I got her letter, she said Elsie—”

“Elsie’s missing too,” Charlie said sharply, nostrils flaring before her face turned away. She sighed mournfully, and her shoulders dipped. “I’m going in after them.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “But... you can’t.”

“Why?” Charlie turned back to Sam, but he didn’t see anger in her, just deep, deep upset. “Because I’m a woman? Because I don’t have a big, strong man to do it for me?”

“What?! No! Because that forest eats people! Believe me, up until a minute ago I was ready to march in there myself and drag Dean back out from the jaws of a lion if I had to, but then I see this?” He tapped a finger at the letter Charlie was holding. “If he’s fine then everyone else is probably fine too.”

Charlie huffed. “If only. Dean’s the only one impervious to the forest’s charms. Nobody else got the luxury of strolling back out as if nothing was wrong. Nobody else is sending letters by glowing carrier pigeon every day. Dean said it himself— This one here.” Charlie pointed at another letter. “Cas saw Missouri and Elsie inside the forest. And Dean said _I hope you two got back safe._ ” Charlie’s jaw tensed and her eyes were full of tears as she looked at Sam, fingers folding up the letter. “They never got back safe. They never got back at all.”

Sam’s heart had been sinking for a while now, but seeing the grief in Charlie’s expression put his heart a whole lot closer to the floor. He swallowed.

“Will there be any changing your mind?” he asked, taking Dean’s letter from her hands before she crushed it. “Or are you set on rescuing them?”

“I closed the school,” she said. She had a small smile on her lips now, apparently giddy with relief. “The children are back with their parents; some of them are leaving town on the next train. We’re out of firewood. It’s either leave, or all of us make camp in the town hall for the whole winter.”

Sam pressed his lips together, understanding. “So you’re prepared to leave.”

Charlie gave a brittle laugh, eyes lifting to meet Sam’s. Her reply chilled Sam more than the air ever could. “Sam,” she said, “I’m prepared to die.”

Sam looked away, frowning. He didn’t know what to say.

“Missouri told me to wait for you,” Charlie said, now speaking as normally as she might about coffee and cake. “I haven’t gone after her and Elsie yet because you hadn’t arrived. But now you’re here.” She looked at Sam, and Sam dearly wished her expression wasn’t so hopeful.

“What,” he said, breathless, “you need a big, strong man, now?”

Charlie’s smile was friendly. “I need you, specifically,” she said. “I had a dream telling me which way to go, how to trick the forest. So I’ll navigate. But when we meet the monster we’re going to meet, I’m going to need your hunting expertise. Unless someone who knows how to kill monsters can get to the end of this hunt, we’re all done for.”

“I haven’t hunted all that much,” Sam said worriedly. “My knowledge is mostly theory.”

Charlie ignored him. “Unless we succeed, everyone who already went into the forest would have gone in vain. You and I have to finish this, Sam. We’re the only people who can.”

Sam thought about that. “Do you... believe they’re dead? The people who vanished?”

“I really don’t know,” Charlie said. She took Sam’s bag off his shoulder and set it on the table, opening it up to pack the food set out before them. “My dream gave me the impression there was something to find once we get to the end.”

“What if it’s just Heaven at the end,” Sam said quietly.

He thought of Jessica, and wondered if she would even consider going into the forest after him if he vanished. No, he decided. She was too full of self-preservation for that. He gulped, and offered a final theory. “What if this is part of the monster’s plan? Everyone follows someone else inside, and none of us ever see the light of day.”

Charlie put a neatly-collected length of rope over the contents of the bag, then clasped the bag shut. “Neither of us are stupid, Sam. We both know it’s a trap. But if you’re anything like Dean, or like Missouri, or Elsie, or anyone else who loves someone else,” she said, meeting Sam’s eye and lifting the candle as she smiled, “you won’t care.”

She pursed her lips and blew out the candle.

In the smoky darkness, Sam suspected she was right.

They made it as far as the forest’s entrance before they heard a shout.

“Don’t do it!”

Sam turned towards the voice, and saw a little boy hurrying out to meet them. He wore knee-length breeches and a scrappy waistcoat, and his ruddy cheeks were streaked with dirt. “Don’t do it, sir. Miss Bradbury, you can’t.”

Charlie reached to touch the boy’s head of unruly golden hair. It was a familiar touch. “I have to, Edgar. Miss Elsie isn’t going to come back by herself.”

“But then neither are you,” Edgar said. Sam saw how genuinely upset the boy was, and felt uneasy.

Charlie replied in a quiet voice, “I’ve lost everyone, Edgar. My mother, my best friend, and Missouri, who counts as both a friend and mother all over again. But listen – the thing is, leaving isn’t as selfish as it sounds. I can’t just sacrifice myself for nothing.” She lifted her head and turned her face towards Sam, swallowing. “If Sam’s with me, I stand a chance of not only coming out of this alive, but saving everyone.”

Her gaze sank down, then cast itself back to Edgar. “Perhaps I have a bunch of those delusions your mother was talking about this morning.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Edgar said. “I think she was plenty wrong, Miss. If you can save everyone then you’ll be a modern-day Joan of Arc and nobody’ll complain about your trousers.”

Charlie chuckled, looking down and lifting a foot. She pulled at the hem of her skirt, and Sam was surprised to see a pair of men’s trousers under her dress, the same maroon colour as the dress itself. “Maybe they won’t,” Charlie said, putting her boot back on the ground. “But you understand why I have to go.”

“I get it,” Edgar said sadly. “I’d go too if my mother wouldn’t shout at me for it.”

“You stay here,” Charlie said, going forward and wrapped the boy up in a friendly hug. She squeezed, then let go, ruffling his hair. “Look after the town for me while we’re gone.”

“Well... all right,” Edgar said.

Charlie smiled, and was about to turn away, but then she hesitated and turned back. She held out a hand, palm up.

Edgar looked at the hand, then sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flick-knife, setting it into Charlie’s hand. “Thank you,” Charlie said. “Edgar, unless you stop picking people’s pockets, you’re going to get into big, big trouble one day.”

Sam huffed lightly, impressed at the child’s skill; he hadn’t noticed at all.

“See you, Miss Bradbury,” Edgar called, and Charlie headed for the forest again. Sam followed her, looking back at the boy, who cupped his hands around his mouth to shout after them, “Try not to get eaten up!”

“I’ll do my best,” Charlie sang, then walked straight into the forest without any sense of caution. Sam wanted a moment to prepare himself, but he saw the leaves at the entrance tremble without a touch, and he ran into the forest quickly before the leafy gate could shut behind him. Inside, it was dark and gloomy and wet, and it smelled like pine.

“Don’t blink,” Charlie said.

“I know,” Sam nodded. He watched the trees either side of the path pass them by as they walked. The spaces between each trunk were nothing but black voids. He gulped, then looked ahead to the back of Charlie’s head. Her red plait was swung over her shoulder, and her slim jaw jutted out as she looked around her.

“Which way?” Sam asked.

“Follow the path,” Charlie said. “Then take the first left.”

“Where do we want to go?”

“To the place Elsie and Missouri were abducted,” Charlie said. “We’ll follow where they went.”

_More people. Always more people. Why won’t they take the hint? Every time they come inside, we close the gate and say no! Every time, they ignore us!_

_We’re too slow at closing the gate, that’s why. It’s such a pity their eyes don’t blink more._

_It’s too late now. The crimson woman and the tall man are trying to find the goat woman and the sybil. There’s not much we can do but lead them onwards._

_But that means giving them up! That means putting them in danger on purpose!_

_That’s what they want, isn’t it? We can’t protect people who don’t want our protection. We have to let them leave our safety. If we don’t, they’ll only find a way out themselves._

_Like the deerman did._

_Yes. Like the deerman._

_We don’t talk about the deerman._

“This way!” Charlie scampered up a muddy bank, ripping her dress on a tree root. She paid the snag no attention, and held out a hand to help Sam climb the same bank. The bag on his back shifted its weight as he rose up, and he paused to rest a hand on a pine tree.

“Hurry up, Sam,” Charlie said urgently, coming back a few steps to grab Sam’s sleeve. “We’re almost there.”

Sam followed, having to jog to keep up with Charlie’s eager pace. “Earlier,” he said, “you said ‘abducted’. Not ‘killed’.”

“I— I don’t know,” Charlie replied, looking over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes to prevent a blink. “I can’t honestly believe they’re dead. I get frailer every day with worry that they _are_ dead, but what kills me faster is the thought that they’re not. They could be in here somewhere, too weak to send me a message.”

She brought them to a clearing, where daylight poured down from overhead. Sam examined the muddy ground, heart thumping when he saw scuffed, week-old bootprints he could still recognise as Dean’s. They were matched with smaller, fresher bootprints; those of Elsie and Missouri. “They came this way,” Sam said, feeling full of promise at long last. “Dean, Missouri and Elsie, they all came this way.”

“Through here,” Charlie breathed, running onwards between two big tree trunks. “Spruce trees.”

Sam could see a light through the trunks, shimmering like the reflection off a pond. “What is that?”

“Quickly,” Charlie said, starting to run. “Sam, come on!”

Sam adjusted his bag and grasped it with a hand, picking up speed to catch up with Charlie. She had hitched her dress high and was running with it crumpled around her waist, her trousers sweeping at the knee on each forward leap. Her plait flailed behind her, and when she turned her head to look around, Sam saw her wide eyes and open mouth.

The light got brighter and brighter, then Sam rounded a tree and almost fell into a pond. He swung his arms around, regaining his balance. The pond was the source of the light.

The mud around the pond was covered in markings. Deer hooves, human shoes, bare feet, a handprint, the delicate press of fallen cloth – now removed. Sam stood in one spot and looked around, confused. So much had happened here, and he didn’t understand any of it.

“Over here, Sam.”

Sam turned and followed Charlie’s voice and the red swish of her dress as she carried on through the forest, heading back in nearly the same direction they’d come.

“What makes you so sure it’s this way?” Sam asked. Charlie didn’t seem as certain as she had a minute ago: she was looking around at the yellow aspens with a frown and pursed lips. “How do you know—”

“Shh,” Charlie said, raising a hand.

Sam had been on enough hunts to know that when someone said “Shh,” it meant he should shut the hell up, no matter how many thoughts he needed to express.

He was glad he’d stayed quiet. Through the rustles of the trees, the occasional tweet of a bird, and the bounding hind legs of some other critter, Sam heard a howling.

He wanted to ask what it was, but there was no way Charlie would know any more than he did. He listened.

It came from the west, where the sun had yet to travel, and it rumbled along the ground.

“Heatwave,” Sam whispered. “You feel it?”

Charlie nodded. Her eyes were trained on something in the distance, far ahead through the trees. Sam’s breathing began to hasten as he felt the heat rise, making him sweat, evaporating all ideals of winter.

“Getting closer,” Charlie said under her breath. “That sound, it’s louder now. We’re being hunted.”

“Was this in your dream?”

Charlie nodded, not looking at Sam. “We have to let it get us.”

“What?” Sam said, having to speak up over the howl. “Let _what_ get us?”

“The fire,” Charlie said. Her bony wrist raised from her side, and she pointed where she was looking. Sam’s eye followed her finger, and his heart’s ceaseless pounding reached a crescendo inside him.

Through the trees, he saw flame. A fireball. Red, orange, yellow. It tossed smoke from its back and pushed trees from its path, its jaws snarling open, drooling molten sparks. The monster came lunging towards them on powerful legs, howling an attack cry.

Sam understood why animals ran when faced with hunting dogs. And yet, despite his fear, he was rooted to the spot.

He felt Charlie’s sweating hand wrap around his wrist. “Wait for it,” she shouted over the noise. “Wait for it, Sam!”

The leaves of the trees around them began to singe. Sam’s eyes were so dry he couldn’t blink if he tried. He locked eyes with the approaching hellhound and stared his own death down. He heard one last rumbling howl, a howl of triumph – then the heat became unbearable, and he fell to his knees, accepting the bite of Hell as it came down upon him.

He felt the jolt of the Earth, and cold lashes of ice on his back. He took in a breath in reaction, only to find the air was cold and moving, almost like he was underwater, being carried along in the current of a river. He opened his eyes, and saw only blue, a calm blue, twisting with flashes of black. Then he saw a snatch of maroon, and realised it was Charlie. She was under this river too, and her hair tumbled about in the current.

“ _Sam?_ ” her mouth said. Sam couldn’t hear her.

“ _Charlie,_ ” he responded. He was sure he spoke, but he didn’t even hear the word in his own head. He looked around and saw they were in a tunnel, swirling and twirling behind them. They were moving faster than Sam had ever thought possible. Where were they being taken?

He didn’t have long to wonder. All at once the easy, floating feeling disappeared, and Sam recognised the sensation of being pushed through air. He saw a leafy forest floor rush along under his face, and then he fell into it, still whooshing along at a horizontal angle. He rolled with the force, tumbling and bumping into thankfully flat ground. He came to a stop, face-down, shaking.

He put a hand into the leaves and shut his eyes, letting out a breath. Somehow, he was okay. He was alive.

...Presumably.

He got to his feet, aching and bruised on every side. He brushed leaves from his knees. They were fall leaves, each one six-pointed, the size of his hand, and the colour of a flame. He lifted one from where it was stuck to his elbow, and he looked at it closely. It was not from the same forest as before, not from Black Hills. Sam didn’t recognise this species of leaf.

He looked up, and saw towering, gargantuan tree trunks. He was in a forest of giants, and it awed him to his core.

“Sam,” came a rasp. Sam breathed in and turned to his right, seeing Charlie getting to her feet. Sam ran to her, grabbing the bag from the ground as he went.

“Are you okay?” he asked, helping Charlie to her feet.

She nodded, sweeping her hands down her front. She glanced around, and saw what Sam saw: it was daylight, but the air was golden, and the light came from the distance, all around. Sam searched for a way to find north.

“There’s no sun,” Sam realised aloud. “It’s the horizon that’s glowing.”

“This wasn’t in my dream,” Charlie said. “This forest wasn’t part of it. The blue tunnel, yes—” She turned around, and Sam turned too. They looked back the way they’d come, and were astounded to see a big, swirling blue vortex positioned three feet from the ground. It seemed to spit air out of its gaping mouth, but the bright lines curved back, feeding into the blue circle’s own sides.

“What _is_ it?” Sam said, feeling almost cheerful that he had the privilege to see something so incredible.

“I don’t know, but I think it saved our lives.”

Sam hummed, blinking a few times. His eyes weren’t dry any more, and it was a blessing, same as the absence of cold in the air.

“Those,” Charlie said sharply, drawing Sam’s attention. “ _Those_ were in my dream.”

Sam looked where she was looking, and he gasped and took a step back.

Six identical black creatures stood in silence only ten feet away, gazing at Sam and Charlie. Each of them had long, oversized bird-like faces, rodent teeth that hooked down over their snouts, and the square shoulders of well-built men. Halfway down their torsos, their flesh dripped to nothing, as if they had been eaten carelessly, and their bone structures were revealed. They had humanoid skeletons, but their fingers were crooked and long, with multiple joints. The creatures did not seem solid, but smoky, their vapour drifting in what little breeze there was. Their eyes glowed red.

“Um,” Sam said. His fingers twitched, and immediately he felt Charlie take his hand. He didn’t have time to worry about how inappropriate that was, because the bonebirds all stepped forward at once, and Charlie leapt backwards. Sam stepped with her, and when the bonebirds stepped again, fear lent him the good sense to run.

Charlie ran faster than he did, despite having shorter legs and a dress; she darted about, skimming trees and leading Sam where she went. Sam lolloped after her, feeling too big and clumsy to be following such a nimble thing.

“What if they were friendly,” Sam gasped out, leaping over a silver stream. “What if they were the ones who saved us?”

“No—” Charlie was out of breath. “No, they weren’t. In – my dream they were – _ah!_ – dangerous.” She stole a look further ahead and cried, “River!”

“Here, this way,” Sam shouted, pulling Charlie onto an arched stone bridge over the water. He shot a look behind him and made a noise of fright as he saw the bonebirds were only a few paces behind, treading carefully and lightly, matching Sam and Charlie’s pace, moving their arms swiftly, like sportsmen. They ran in a V formation, smoke dissipating behind them.

Leaves hushed above them, raining down as they ran. Sam wondered in a panic how long it would be until he got tired, until Charlie tripped on her dress, until his bag shook itself open and his weapons fell out.

Wait— Weapons!

“Charlie, open the bag! Get a knife!”

“I have a flick-knife in my pocket, let me—”

“Is it silver?”

“No – bronze. Why silver?” Charlie asked, now reaching over, struggling to undo the bag while running at full speed. The buckle came undone and the rope fell out, unravelling across their path. Sam looked behind and saw the smoke creatures simply run right through it, like it wasn’t there.

“Most supernatural things – _hhf_ – are affected by silver,” Sam answered, grabbing Charlie and steering her around a log. Her dress tore on it but the pull barely slowed her, she let the material go and ran on, one hand in Sam’s bag.

“Ah!” Charlie gasped. Her hand shot out of the bag and Sam saw her hand was sliced.

“Knives, I’m – so sorry,” Sam breathed, grasping Charlie’s forearm and running on, not allowing her to slow down. “Grab one, quick! I’m sorry!”

Charlie’s hand darted into the bag again, and she gritted her teeth as she pulled out a machete, ridged with silver teeth that glinted in the light. Sam took the leather-wrapped handle, seeing blood on it from Charlie’s hand.

The bag began to spill its other contents – knives and candles and food – everything they’d packed went to waste, strewn across the leaves, bouncing through the bonebirds’ feet. Sam tried to catch anything at all, but gave up as he realised he was slowing down.

Instead, he grasped the machete tight, and turned at the waist, running backwards. With expert aim, he threw it at a bonebird. The knife soared straight through it, and Sam felt a waterfall of dismay pour over him. He caught Charlie’s eye as they ran side-by-side, and they both knew they were done for. Their bag was empty, as everything had fallen out now. Sam tossed the bag at their pursuers, as a weak last effort.

Then he turned to face the way ahead, intending to run until his legs gave out – except there was nowhere left to run. Ahead of them was a tall black gate, fronting a black mansion. Leaves swayed down over it, gleaming in the pale light.

Their proximity to the gate forced Sam to slow down. There was no way left or right; the world seemed to curve so that this was the end of everything. Where Sam had expected more big trees, there was nothingness he couldn’t comprehend, the way things went nonexistent and unobserved in a dream.

He came to a stop, his hand around Charlie’s arm, and they stood together in front of the gate. Sam’s throat was burning, he could taste blood in his mouth, and his heart hammered, trying to beat its way out from him ribcage and keep running by itself.

“We’ve been herded,” Sam said, realising too late.

The gates opened in total silence. Sam heard a scuff behind him, and looked back to see a bonebird step forward, scaring him onwards. Sam saw the way back; the trees were arranged exactly the same way as they were near the portal. This was a place of terrific magic.

“Let’s go in,” Charlie said, still catching her breath. “If this is where everyone else went, it’s where we should go.”

“But what if we can’t get back? Nobody else came back.”

“Better to die with friends, than to live not knowing,” Charlie said with determination. Her bloodied hand skimmed up to hold Sam’s fingers, and Sam considered the exhaustion in her face. She wanted nothing more than to find the people she loved. Sam had accompanied her this far, it made no sense to stop now.

“As friends, then,” Sam said, squeezing her hand.

Charlie gave him a smile, blinking slowly. “Friends.”

They walked in through the gates, on a carpet of fallen leaves. Sam looked back as the gate closed, and saw their six escorts waiting in silence on the other side. Watching them.

Sam looked back up at the mansion, gaping as he observed its true magnitude. “It’s huge,” he whispered.

“Wonder who lives there,” Charlie said. “Maybe the smoke things are their pets. Guard dogs.”

Sam swallowed. “I don’t like that idea much. Whatever’s in that house has got to be powerful beyond reason.”

Charlie stopped walking suddenly. “Sam,” she said, so quietly he barely heard.

“What?” Sam asked, eyes darting between her gaunt face and where she was staring, on the front lawn of the mansion.

“Right there,” Charlie said. “Right _there_.” She started running, pulling Sam along with her. “On the grass! There! There! Oh my God!”

Sam sped up as he saw it too. In the middle of the lawn there were three bubble-like constructions, black and smoky like the bonebirds. They were cages. Inside the cages there were people – if Sam were to take a guess, he would say there were twenty-eight people in total.

He and Charlie panted for breath as they circled the cages, splitting up to look between them.

Sam looked for Missouri’s face, Missouri, Missouri. But he couldn’t see her, he just saw old men, old women, and younger people, but no children. They stared at him, making sad sounds, wailing.

“Mamma,” Charlie cried, but it was not a satisfied sound. “Mamma, where are you?!”

A bonebird was standing behind Sam when he turned around, and he shouted, but the bird’s long fingers took a grip on his hand and he couldn’t struggle. “Let me go!”

The bonebird curled a long finger and one of the cages lifted its side like the ribs of a roast pork, cracking upwards, the closest ones higher than the further ones. It was only when Sam was shoved brutally into the arms of ten protective people, and he turned around to see the cage clipping shut again, he realised the cages were constructed of actual bones. Like the smoky ribs of the bonebirds, but fifty times larger.

And by then, it was too late. Charlie screamed as she was thrown into the next cage along, and the townsfolk in there shielded her from the fall too. Sam heard her wail of upset as that cage was closed down over her, and the bonebird evaporated in a wisp of coal smoke.

Sam breathed hard, reaching for a bar of the cage—

His hand was grabbed and halted by an old man with greying, once-black hair, tied in a plait. “Do not touch the cage,” he said. “That’s how she died.”

“That’s how who died?”

The man turned his eyes towards Charlie’s cage, from which a heartbroken keening emerged, air-shattering in its grief. “Gertrude,” he said. “Charlotte’s mother.”

Sam felt lightheaded. “No,” he whispered. “Oh, Charlie, I’m so sorry.”

Charlie was crying in sobs. Her breath suddenly hitched, and her mourning stopped.

Sam bristled. He shouted to the next cage, “What happened?!”

A shout came back, “She fainted.”

Sam had begun to shake, and he appreciated the warm hands trying to comfort him. “Her hand,” he said. “She’s injured.”

“Teresa will care for her,” said the old native man. “She shares Charlotte’s cage.”

Sam nodded, blinking hard and cupping his face in his hands. He had blood on his skin still. He didn’t know what to pray for, because everything seemed impossible now. He had no resources, no way out. He’d known he was walking straight into a trap but he’d foolishly thought he would find a solution before he could get caught. Now he was as stuck as the others.

“What about Missouri? And the other woman, Elsie?” Sam asked in a ragged voice. He looked around at the others in his cage, but while they showed signs of recognition, they shook their heads.

“They haven’t come this way,” said a black woman of Sam’s age. She was wearing clothes too small, and knelt on the ground so her dress wouldn’t show her legs.

Sam stood up, then ducked – he was almost the same height as the cage; a hair out of place and he would touch the deadly bones. “Where are they, then?” he asked, sinking back to his knees, settling himself with the other prisoners. “If they’re not here...” He sighed, looking up at the bizarrely-lit sky beyond the trees looming over the garden. He felt an overwhelming sense of failure, and of all things, he felt sorry he might never kiss Jess again. “Perhaps Dean will find them. But, unless he can also find _us_... we might all be trapped here forever.”


	12. Voyage Over Earth

“Are you packed?” Castiel asked, pulling off his shirt.

Dean nodded, taking the shirt and folding it up to put into his bag. “Let’s do this. Enough dilly-dallying, there’s people out there countin’ on us.”

Dean was wearing clothes for the first time in a week. Parts of his ripped trousers and shirt were bulked up with repair stitching, and his leather coat was loose across the back and at the shoulders, but everything was still wearable. And, while he had donned clothing today, Castiel was determinedly removing his own.

The two of them were standing a good distance from the hut, whose chimney still smoked from the breakfast Dean had burned. He wouldn’t have burned it at all, had it not been for Castiel’s kisses on the backs of his shoulders and the way Castiel nuzzled at the nape of his neck like a touch-starved cat. Still, the charcoal grilled apple strudel-ish type thing had been filling, and quite fun to eat, due to the way it dribbled down chins and required someone else’s tongue to remove.

Now naked, Castiel gave Dean his shoes last. They were brown moccasins, embroidered with coloured thread. Dean speculated that the design might have been one of Missouri’s; she liked doing fancy things like that when she wasn’t extremely busy. Dean also suspected Castiel had stolen them, but he didn’t like to say anything in case he was wrong.

Castiel took a deep breath, readying himself.

Thirty seconds later, nothing had happened.

“Hurry up, would you Cas?” Dean complained. “It can’t be _that_ hard.”

“ _You_ try and become an animal that doesn’t exist,” Castiel snapped, wriggling his fingers at his sides as he frowned. “Unless I work out where all my internal organs are supposed to be, I could be flying with no spleen.”

“You need a spleen to fly?”

“I honestly don’t know, I don’t know what a spleen is,” Castiel replied, sending a demure glance in Dean’s direction. “Now hush, Dean, and let me think.”

Dean sighed and was quiet for a while. He smiled at the sky, which was a clear, bright blue. He watched birds fly overhead in a group, sweeping and changing direction all at once. There had been a time he and Sam had been that in harmony with each other; years apart while Sam was at Stanford had probably whittled that bond down to the ability to know the other’s mind perhaps eighty percent of the time. Dean hoped there would again come a time when they could live and breathe and talk as one, but under circumstances less dire than before.

“I’m ready,” Castiel said, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. “Wait, do I need a tail?”

“Yes,” Dean said. “For steering and balance, like cats need on fences.”

“What about spikes?”

“No!” Dean waved his hands frantically. “I gotta sit on you, I don’t want an ass poked full of sharp things, thanks.”

Castiel nodded. “Okay. Stand back.”

Dean scooted back a few steps, watching Castiel, feeling eager but jittery.

Castiel took a deep breath, filling his chest. He shut his eyes and turned his face to the sky, then began to grow.

His skin turned white and scaly as he bent forward at the waist, then he became the size of a horse; his snout grew, and the colour of his dark hair vanished only to reappear on his nose. Bones erupted from his back, splaying out in two separate fins, each forming joints, growing webs of skin between them, stringing together with some peculiar glowing substance. The webs grew thicker and bigger as Castiel’s back arched, his hands touched the ground and his knees bent low; his hands skidded forward through the dirt and leaves as he doubled in size again. His wings flapped experimentally, still growing. They were bat-like, pale and silver and _huge_. Dean could feel the draft their movement created from where he stood.

Last of all, a tail appeared at Castiel’s rear end. It was thick at his rump and pointed at its tip, and his long neck craned backwards so he could see the end of it. Black spines poked out in two sets of three, either side of the tip.

“Show-off,” Dean muttered, unable to hold down a smile. “You make a pretty good dragon.”

Castiel smiled, looking at Dean down his elongated silver nose. His eyes were big and blue, and he blinked serenely. “ _GOAAAAAHRWWW,_ ” he said. Dean ducked and covered his ears. He got the impression that was Castiel’s conversational volume.

“Let’s pretend you forgot to include a voice box,” Dean said, sauntering forward with his bag at his hip, his shotgun with golden deer on it hanging from his shoulder. He went to Castiel’s side and patted his bicep, which was a good two feet over Dean’s head. Castiel’s scales were leathery, and moved with a fluid ripple of muscle as Castiel shifted in place.

“Awesome,” Dean said, seeing Castiel lift a taloned foot. “Oh – you want me to step on it?”

Castiel nodded, still looking over his shoulder at Dean. Dean grinned and used Castiel’s foot as a mounting block, pushing himself up to his back. With a “Hup!” Dean swung his leg over and sat on Castiel like he was on a horse. A really tall, incredibly fat horse. Dean rested his hands flat on Castiel’s shoulders, laughing gleefully as he felt Castiel wiggle under him.

Castiel leaned forward and put his head down to _roar_ along the ground, pushing a flurry of leaves into the air with the force. The sound nearly blew Dean’s eardrums out, but he laughed anyway – Cas was as excited about being a dragon as Dean was.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dean grinned. “I never let you ride me when I was a cervitaur, but now? Ha. It’s not inappropriate when you actually got wings, right?”

“ _GRRWWHHH._ ”

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean laughed, patting Castiel’s neck. He wasn’t quite warm, but there was definitely a hint of not-cold about him. “People to save, things to hunt. We’d better go.”

Castiel rumbled, and took a tentative step forward.

“Whoa!” Dean flailed and grabbed Castiel neck with both arms, huffing as he laughed. “This is gonna take some getting used to.”

“ _GRRhh._ ”

Castiel waddled backwards, head up to see behind him. He swept his tail along the ground to make sure he wouldn’t walk into anything, and when he met with trees, he turned to stare ahead.

“What is that, what’s that space for?” Dean asked, gazing out at the runway before them. Then it clicked. “Oh... shit.”

Castiel began to run, clumsy and careful at first, but then he put his head down, and Dean hung on for dear life as the air current hit him straight in the face, whipping past his ears in a tremendous whistle, ruffling his hair into tangles. He muttered “Oh no, oh no,” as he felt Castiel’s feet pummelling the ground, and his wide eyes watched the ground speed by, so fast it was just a blur. He shut his eyes in terror; the footfall-thumps came so quickly Dean couldn’t tell them apart any more, it became too much to take and Dean was holding his breath and biting his lip and gripping Castiel’s neck so tight he worried he might choke him – but then the jolting stopped, and they were whooshing along smoothly. Dean cracked open an eye, and saw not a leafy ground under them, but the tops of the trees.

Dean screamed and hung on tighter.

Castiel laughed.

For another minute or so their altitude continued to climb, and Dean tried not to hyperventilate. Soon enough, Dean bravely swivelled his gaze back a short way, looking to his left to see those incredible wings flapping down, sweeping forward and down, up, forward and down. Castiel was controlling the air, or perhaps riding it so effortlessly that despite the flaps of his wings, he stayed level. Dean’s eardrums began to ache, and he swallowed in reaction, and felt relieved when an immense pressure disappeared with a pop. He hadn’t realised such a pressure had even built.

The forest below was now no more than an area of vaguely tree-shaped things, coloured dark green, nearly black.

_Black Hills_ , he realised. It had never occurred to him in all his life why this place was named Black Hills. From the ground, the trees were green, or twiggy and brown in winter. The only way it could have been seen as black would be from above. Perhaps from a high peak – or from the back of a dragon.

The altitude alone was enough to make Dean queasy, but he laughed to himself, pretending it was just the thinness of the air up here making him dizzy. Unsurprisingly, that thought didn’t help him feel safer.

What did make him feel safer was the assurance that Cas wouldn’t let him get hurt. With that repeated as a calming mantra in his head, Dean took slow, deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. He started to smile, because with the autumn sun cast at a high angle across the trees, and the gentleness of the journey, Dean realised he might actually be enjoying this. The view was spectacular. He wondered how many other humans on the entire planet had ever seen the world from above.

It took him a few more minutes to settle, and he rested his cheek on Castiel’s neck as he watched the world fly by.

But then he remembered why they were flying. He raised his head, only sitting up far enough that he could see, not far enough that the air current hit him full-force. Castiel’s head protected him from some of that, splitting the air for him the way birds’ wingtip vortices did when they flew in V-formation.

“Cas,” Dean called, only hearing half his voice, as the rest was lost to the wind. “Cas, how do we know where to look? We couldn’t see people from up here. Unless you have magic eyes that see through trees, we’re blind to what’s on the ground.”

Castiel roared back, and Dean sighed, acknowledging that Cas was English-impaired at the moment.

He trusted Cas to guide them the right way, however. In the meantime, Dean continued to watch the forest go by, grinning when he saw a clearing with grass, and a deer sprinting across the space and into the trees.

This was utterly beautiful. One of the best experiences of his life, for sure. He chuckled, then shouted to Castiel, “You know, I don’t know what’s more impressive: this, or your true form.”

Castiel gave a groan of amused despair, then began a downslope.

“Wh— Cas! Cas, no, I didn’t mean it!” Dean bellowed, scrambling to regain purchase on Castiel’s neck as they descended, swooping lower and lower. They weren’t going gently any more; the wind was pushing against them from one side, and Castiel’s wings were flared at asymmetrical angles to accommodate the force.

“Cas, why are we going down?!”

Castiel grumbled reassuringly, and Dean hung on tight, hoping Cas knew what he was doing. Dean swallowed twice, then again, desperately trying to relieve the pressure in his ears again. It worked until his mouth dried up, and then his throat was too tense to swallow, and Dean began to hyperventilate again. “Cas!” he pleaded. “Caaaaas—!”

Castiel roared, throwing his wings up so they didn’t hit a pine tree. They went up, then continued going down. Dean didn’t see a landing strip, just trees and trees and trees. “We’re gonna crash!” he cried, squeezing on Castiel’s throat. “Cas, I don’t wanna die!”

Castiel hummed, giving a few half-hearted flaps. He seemed far too calm about this.

Dean wailed and stuck his forehead down on Castiel’s neck, and for the second time he clung on for dear life. His ears were whining so he couldn’t hear anything else, and one eye refused to close as he watched treetops racing past, going up and down and up and down as Cas skimmed the limit of Dean’s sanity.

Then, all at once, they stopped completely. Castiel’s wings folded up tight, and he sank in mid-air. Dean screamed unabashedly as he fell backwards and kept falling, looking to the sky as he turned, falling past the treetops. Cas was nowhere in sight—

Dean fell into something soft. He was breathing hard, eyes shut. When he realised he wasn’t dead, he cracked open an eye. Castiel’s human face was peering down at him, a smug smile on his lips and a rude twinkle in his eye. Dean squirmed, and Castiel let him stand on his feet.

Dean promptly fell over, and Castiel caught him in a kneel before Dean collapsed completely. His gun slid from his shoulder and landed beside his bag, and he panted up at the sky, eyes rolling back. All he could hear was the whispering in the forest. Whispering, whispering.

“Dean? Dean, look at me.”

Dean expended a great deal of effort in trying to look at Castiel, and when he did, Castiel smiled. “Welcome back to Earth.”

“Bastard,” Dean huffed.

“There was no other way to land,” Castiel explained. He lifted his chin and looked around the clearing. “Do you remember this place, Dean? This is where we first met. This pool.”

Dean blinked and sat up slightly, hanging on to Castiel’s shoulders as he did. He licked his lips and examined his surroundings, then let out a breath as he saw the pool glowing.

“It wasn’t glowing before,” Dean said.

“It glows when there’s humans in the forest,” Castiel said. “It stops glowing when I arrive.” He nodded to the pool, and the light faded. “It’s there so the forest spirits can communicate with me. I can hear it calling, wherever I am.”

“So— So you could hear it all the time? All the time I’ve been here?”

Castiel helped Dean stand up, and shook his head as he reached for Dean’s bag, taking out his clothes. “It’s not glowing for you this time.”

“Then who?” Dread burst awake in Dean’s chest, and his clenched up his fingers. “Missouri? Elsie?”

Castiel tied his trousers, looking down with a thoughtful frown on his face. “I couldn’t say,” he said. “I was sure they left the forest after I told them to. The spirits never alerted me to another presence until now.”

“When did it start?”

“No more than an hour ago,” Castiel said. “We were already getting ready to leave then, there was no point rushing. Rushing would only risk your safety, or compromise my own.”

Dean handed Castiel his shirt, then held onto his shoes while Castiel washed the mud off his feet in the pool. “So who is it this time? Who’s dead now?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel pressed his lips into a narrow line, then took his shoes, standing on one foot to put one on, then stepping onto dry land to put on the other. “There is an easy way to find out if it’s my siblings causing all this ruckus,” he said, but didn’t sound too convinced.

“When I said there were other gods on Earth, it was just an idea, Cas. I wasn’t pointing fingers.”

Castiel looked up with a calm stare. “It was a good idea. Learn to trust your instincts. Any deer who is led by their gut feeling is a deer that survives. Danger means run. A funny-looking food means you shouldn’t eat it. Pay attention to what you’re noticing.”

Dean chuckled, and when Castiel tilted his head, Dean grinned. “Funny-looking apple strudel.”

Castiel chuckled too, and Dean beamed. They had an in-joke. Dean would never explain it to Sam because it was more fun that way.

“My point is,” Castiel said, glancing to the pool, “you aren’t unintelligent, Dean. I feel as if you’ve never believed anyone when they’ve told you something similar.”

Dean rolled a shoulder. “Well, no. But I’m really not—”

“Dean.” Castiel gazed at him firmly. “When someone pays you a compliment, say thank you and appreciate it.”

Dean swallowed his argument, and managed a tiny quirk of a smile. “Thanks.”

“Very well done.”

Castiel then took a breath and began to patrol the clearing, avoiding the wetter patches of mud to protect his soft leather shoes. “There are fresh footprints leading that way,” he said, gesturing with his nose.

Dean followed Castiel, wiping his muddied gun against a tuft of grass as he passed it. There was no saving the bag, it was stained near-black on its underside. Dean could feel its cool dampness pressing on his backside as he matched the graceful tread of the god in front of him.

“Do you smell that?” Dean asked, sniffing at the air. “Burning.”

“A wildfire,” Castiel said. “I try and stop them as often as I can – with rainstorms,” he glanced over his shoulder, and Dean nodded, “but they start fast and spread faster, and often, in the wetter seasons, they burn themselves out before I even arrive. I may be a god but I’ve never had the power of instant transportation, not without a massive expense of energy. I’m too slow for fire.”

“You could just make it rain once a day,” Dean said, grinning as he hopped up to walk at Castiel’s side. He remembered this part of the forest, he’d run along it immediately after becoming a deer. It was strange to see it go past so slowly.

“If I made it rain once a day like clockwork, over everywhere in Black Hills, don’t you think someone would suspect something? Besides, this forest is so large I would exhaust myself before I’d covered even a single percentile. The tiny shower I used to put out that flaming hand – you remember – that used enough magic that I had to carry you back to my hut as a human.”

“Oh,” Dean said. Then he blanched. “Holy fucking _shit_ , you walked all that way as a person? Carrying a _deer_?!”

Castiel blinked, pausing with his hand resting on a pine tree. “Well,” he said gingerly, “not all the way. Perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, okay.”

“But I did carry you the whole way!” Castiel scurried after Dean as he went ahead into the collection of tall yellow aspens. “The majority of the journey was made as a bear. It took many, many hours. I’m surprised you stayed asleep for so long, actually. You must’ve been completely drained.”

“Well, I—”

Castiel held his hand up in Dean’s face, and Dean could take a hint. He looked ahead to where Castiel’s attention was focused, and his heart started to pound.

“What the hell happened here?” Dean breathed, floating after Castiel in a perturbed daze. “Wildfires don’t move like that.”

A black line, six feet across, extended from where Dean and Castiel currently stood, going all the way... all the way where?

“It changes direction,” Dean said. “About a hundred feet from here – see, there? – it came from the left.” He pulled his lips back, unwilling to say what his first thought was. But Castiel caught his eye, and Dean figured he ought to try trusting his instincts. “It’s like it was... _chasing_ someone. The way the firehand chased you and me when we were deer.”

Castiel’s pink tongue parted his lips. A breeze came between the trees and disturbed his already-tousled hair, bringing with it the acrid smell of singed plant life.

“The firehand wasn’t too far from here,” Castiel said lowly, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen this kind of marking before. Come this way. I sense— I don’t know, I have a feeling...”

They walked for another couple of minutes, not straying far from where they’d come. The pool was still close by; Dean felt he could pinpoint its exact position, aware it was at least a hundred feet and half as many tree trunks from here.

“What are the chances,” he said, huffing at the disturbing sight before them. Another black line cut through the pine droppings, searing a neat divide between burnt and not-bunt. Dean crouched to touch the line, and discovered it was cold. “This one’s not as fresh as the last one, it doesn’t smell the same.”

“Follow me, Dean,” Castiel said, already walking off.

Dean ran after him, unshouldering his bag for a moment to pull out his flask of water. He took a quick swig, offered it to Castiel, then put it back when Castiel shook his head.

They followed the bend in the burn line this time. It took a sharp right, and another hundred feet down, it began a curve.

“Wait,” Dean said, grasping Castiel’s arm. “Wait, I think I know what this is.”

“What?” Castiel asked, a wrinkle between his eyebrows and tight line beneath his eyes.

Dean licked his lips, putting a hand under his brown undershirt and pulling out the tangle of amulets he usually wore. He picked out one, and held it between his thumb and forefinger to show Castiel.

“This is a pentagram,” he said. “A five-pointed star. This one has a circle.” He pointed at the ground, where the black line made a curve. “That’s part of the circle. The other line back there, that was part of it too.”

Castiel opened and closed his mouth slowly, as if he was chewing his thoughts. “Why would it be a – a pentagram?”

“It’s meant as a protective symbol. Sometimes it’s taken as a bad sign, something evil. Depends who you talk to. Christians used it as a symbol of virtue and truth, while the cross—” Dean lifted another amulet, “is a symbol of suffering.”

“These symbols,” Castiel said, starting forward and reaching a hand to Dean’s amulet collection, not touching any of them. “These are all exactly the same as the one on your bracelet.”

Dean glanced at his wrist, then let the amulets rest on his sternum as he pulled back the sleeve of his leather jacket. The silver bracelet gleamed, still as dainty and elegant as the first day Dean had put it on.

“Yeah,” he said eventually.

“Will these burn me?” Castiel asked, hovering his hand over the necklaces. He hesitated, then held his breath and moved his hand forward to touch the amulet symbols. He pulled away slowly, then looked down at his hand and hummed. “No burning. And those are silver.”

“So it’s only this bracelet that burns,” Dean said. “At least now we know.”

“But that explains nothing,” Castiel said, clearly dissatisfied. He looked about himself, glaring at the shape scorched into the ground. “Why is there a half-made pentagram here?!”

A chilling thought struck Dean. “What if there’s other symbols?” He lifted his wrist and the amulets, showing them both to Castiel. “ _These_ symbols. There’s been twenty-eight people taken—” He took a shaky breath. “At least,” he corrected. “Minimum of twenty-eight. What if all of them got a scorch-mark like this when they got killed? Eaten, vapourised, whatever people think happened. There could be a whole collection of giant religious tokens in the forest.”

“For what purpose?” Castiel said, meandering around several feet away. “What reason would they have for recreating the symbols of faiths that aren’t even their own?”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“The gods! My siblings,” Castiel clarified, wandering the black line with an air of deep concern. “I can’t think of any other creature who would bother to go to these lengths to do _anything_.”

“Yeah... me neither,” Dean agreed. “The things I’ve met before tend to pick one symbol and stick to it. But, Cas... how would we find out?”

Castiel gave a great sigh. “Visit them. Visit the Meridian.”

“The merry what?” Dean blinked. “Isn’t that a city in Mississippi?”

“A meridian is an astronomical construct. Imagine a circle surrounding a planet, like the equator, but going from top to bottom, all the way around, from the north pole to the south pole.”

“That’s where they live? On Earth?”

Castiel shook his head. “They don’t live anywhere near Earth. The Meridian is just an idea, it’s the shape of their home. It’s where I came from.”

“So, not on Earth.”

“No. Closer to the stars.”

“Hang on... So you’re saying you came from a giant wedding ring in outer space?”

Castiel blinked a couple of times. “Yes.”

Dean pressed his lips together and gave a brisk nod. “Okay then.”

“Follow me this way, I’ll open a portal back at the pool.”

“A portal?” Dean hurried after Castiel, his bag hitting his thigh over and over. “Is that a magic door?”

Castiel smiled at Dean, nodding. “Yes.”

They turned to watch where they were going, and followed the black line the way back they had come. Castiel bent down at one point and scooped up something from the ground, brushing it down.

“You must’ve dropped this when you got water,” Castiel said, handing it to Dean.

Dean took his lighter, tossing it in his hand. “Oh, thanks. I haven’t seen this in— Wait.” He stopped walking, staring at the silver object in his hand. Castiel swung around and came back to him, frowning.

“I gave this to Charlotte,” Dean said. “I told her to give it to Elsie. And before you ask – yeah, it’s the same one. Cigarette lighters are rare – hell, they’re bulky and dangerous, that’s why everyone uses matches – but this one? I made this one myself, Cas. It’s one-of-a-kind, and I’d know it anywhere.”

“So why is it here?”

Dean turned around and looked at the black line with renewed worry. “She must’ve been here. Elsie. Or maybe Charlotte never handed it over, maybe she was here.” His heart was pounding in his throat, and his eyes darted around, looking for any more evidence of either woman.

Castiel joined the search, leaving the line’s borders in case they missed anything off to the sides.

After a minute of frantic searching, Castiel’s shout came through the trees. “Dean! Over here!”

Dean ran towards the voice, dodging a few pine trees with half-blackened trunks. Dean found Castiel ten feet from the line, turning over a bag in the scatter of pine needles.

He opened it up as Dean got to him, and Dean dropped to his knees. “That’s one of Missouri’s cooking pots,” he said. “I learned to make oatmeal in that pot, the other pots weren’t as good.”

“So Missouri and Elsie were here,” Castiel said gravely. “I told them to leave... It must’ve happened only moments after I left them. I—” Castiel looked up at Dean with watery guilt in his eyes. “I flew home to you. I left them alone.”

Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat. “They can’t be dead. They can’t. We gotta find them.”

“The portal,” Castiel nodded. “Quickly, Dean!” He stood up with the bag and put it on, tightening the straps until it was secured. He held out his hand, and Dean put his lighter in his pocket, then gladly set his palm to Castiel’s. Castiel gave him a reassuring squeeze, then they set off at a fast walk through the forest.

The trees began to whisper around them, leaves fluttering, branches swaying.

“What’s it saying?” Dean asked, because Castiel had stopped to listen.

“Another bag,” Castiel said. He turned around, letting go of Dean’s hand. Dean watched him disappear around a tree, but he came back only seconds later with a second pack. “This one must be Elsie’s.”

“I’ll carry it,” Dean said, taking it and putting it over his own bag. Then he grabbed Castiel’s hand, because the contact made him feel less panicky.

They walked on, and the whispers fell quiet.

They came to the pool, which, in early afternoon sun, looked as unassuming as any other forest pool. It gleamed with sky blue, and the water cast an upward radiance against the tree trunks around them. Dean could feel the reflected warmth of the sun on his underside of his chin, catching on his eyelashes.

Castiel handed Missouri’s bag to Dean, and Dean shouldered it too. He was sinking into the mud under the weight, but he told himself that once they found Missouri and Elsie, he wouldn’t need to carry the extras any more. They were going to find them alive, they had to.

Funny how his pessimistic perspective changed when the victims were people he knew.

Castiel crouched in a flat, dry part of the clearing, nearby tangled roots but far enough away that he had room to spread his arms. Dean watched him stand up slowly, pushing up on strong thighs. His head rolled back, and his arms lifted straight, and he put his palms together, high over his head.

Then he brought his hands down and gave them a hard push forwards, like he was throwing something. Silver-blue light leapt from his hands and landed against the air, five feet ahead. The light shimmered blue, and slowly turned black in the centre. Dean’s mouth dropped open in his awe: the portal began to inhale, and it grew to three feet across, hovering a couple of feet from the ground. Sweeping strands of power zoomed around the circle, like glowing fish swimming in a whirlpool.

Castiel turned back to Dean and held out a hand to him. “Come, Dean. Bring the bags. Leave the gun.”

Dean lugged their packs over to Cas, handing him Missouri’s pack, then setting his gun down against a tree. Castiel took Elsie’s bag without asking for it, and Dean felt a whole lot lighter. He gasped as Castiel then proceeded to fling the two bags into the portal, and they were eaten up in an instant, sucked through.

“And yours,” Castiel said, holding out a hand for the last one. “If you’re wearing it when you go through you could break your neck.”

Dean handed it over, having doubts about the efficiency of this mode of travel. “Are you sure this is safe?” he asked, as his bag shot away into another dimension.

“Take my hand,” Castiel said.

Dean took it, but was fully aware Cas hadn’t answered his question.

“Let’s go,” Castiel said. He took a deep breath, and Dean barely had a second to panic before Castiel stuck his hand into the portal and all at once there was no gravity.

Dean felt like he was flying again, falling sideways. His hand remained clamped to Castiel’s, and Castiel looked back at him with eyes the same blue as the tunnel. It was cool, and vaguely pleasant. Dean’s fast breaths began to slow, soothed by Castiel’s soft smile and the thumb he stroked along Dean’s hand.

Then Castiel let go of Dean’s hand, and Dean gave him a _why did you do that?!_ look.

Castiel held his eye and nodded once. “ _Here we go,_ ” he said, but his words were completely silent.

Dean hit the air and realised he was both falling and flying at the same time. He cried out as he came too close to the ground, and he reached up to cover his head on instinct. He bumped down hard, rolling with the movement, rolling and rolling over twigs and pebbles until he was so bruised he couldn’t tell which side of himself was touching the ground.

Then he hit a tree, and he grunted, curling around it. He opened his eyes, and saw tree bark many times larger than he was used to seeing. He caught his breath, watching sap drool down the tree’s side.

Dean rolled onto his back and set a hand on his forehead, staring up at the sky. It was golden, and he again thought of his comparison to a wedding ring. “The Meridian,” he said to himself.

He sat up straight and saw a forest floor stretching out, seemingly endless in every direction. He got up. “Cas?”

“Here,” came a disgruntled voice. Dean followed it around the tree he’d crashed into, and discovered Castiel picking up the bags. He hefted Dean’s bag over his shoulder, then trudged closer and dumped the strap over Dean instead.

“Thanks,” Dean said.

Castiel’s eyes landed on something startling behind Dean; he took a sharp breath, and his jaw tightened. “Dean, turn around.”

Dean turned on the spot, and gasped when he saw six tall, smoky figures behind them. Red eyes and black bird skulls, skeletal hands reaching for his throat.

Castiel’s hands grabbed Dean and pulled him backwards – he dropped his bag, and Castiel dropped his too.

“Run, Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean stumbled away. He turned back to see Castiel lifting a hand and thrusting his palm against the first bird thing’s skull, and the creature vanished in a puff of black smoke. Castiel turned to look over his shoulder, and saw Dean hesitating. “I said run!”

Dean couldn’t leave him. He dropped to the ground and picked up a gleaming silver stone, lobbing it straight at one of the monsters. It hit its head and the creature vanished in a second puff of smoke. Cas smote a third one, then spun on his feet and smote another with a zap of magic from his hand.

Dean lifted another stone, but the fifth creature was too close; he didn’t have time to aim before it grabbed him around the arm. Its grip was fiercely tight, he couldn’t break from it. He let his weight fall, and he swung on the momentum and slid on the leaves between the creature’s thin legs. Its arm followed Dean down, and it twisted upside down, forced to let go of Dean.

Dean grasped his own arm, feeling an injury he hoped was just a bruise. He then patted around the leafy ground looking for another stone, but his eyes were on the creature – it was approaching, spindly and menacing, its jaws opening to reveal multiple rows of black, needle-sharp teeth that extended the closer it got to Dean. Dean scrambled back on his rear, skidding through leaves, moving too slowly. He couldn’t see Cas any more, and he didn’t have any way to defend himself—

Something small and fast went through the creature’s head, and its whole form went up in smoke. Dean was left staring at empty air. He looked around quickly, checking for any others, but he was alone.

Then he looked behind him, and changed direction on the ground in his fright – two more bird things were coming for him, bigger and with real flesh this time, even wearing dresses. Their hands reached up to touch their faces, and they took their faces off—

Dean sat, stunned, as he found himself looking up at Missouri and Elsie. Both of them were grinning, and Missouri offered down a hand.


	13. Breaking Bones to Break Free

It took Dean several seconds before he could reach up and let Missouri help him to his feet.

“Boy, you look a right mess,” Missouri said, sweeping Dean’s torso free of orange leaves, presenting her relief as irked concern. “What took you so long?”

Dean’s lower lip moved up and down, and his eyes darted to the handsome god, Castiel, who emerged from behind another tree while checking for danger. Castiel met Dean’s eye, and he smiled in reassurance that the immediate danger had passed.

Dean looked Missouri in the eye, reaching to touch her shoulder. His voice finally began to work. “You’re alive.”

Missouri’s heart swelled with emotion, glad beyond comparison to see Dean the wonder in his eyes. “Well, what did you expect me to be?” she snapped without heat. “I can get by a few weeks without you, I ain’t about to give up just ‘cause some fool kid can’t get outta his sick bed for five minutes.”

Dean sighed and sagged against her shoulders, going for a weak hug. Humming a note, Missouri gave his torso a squeeze, resting her cheek on his head. He smelled like he hadn’t washed in a few days, but he wasn’t dirty. Missouri spared Elsie a glance; she lurked off to the side, wearing a hardened but genuine smile.

When Missouri pushed Dean up straight, she bumped him under the chin with her fingers and shook her head fondly. “I mean it, baby. About time you came to join us. We’ve been waitin’ on you.”

“For how long?” Dean asked, frowning. “You’ve only been gone—”

“Six days,” Castiel said. Dean turned his head to look at him, and Castiel almost smiled. “We lost two days last night, Dean.”

Missouri didn’t understand what that meant, but before she had time to ask, Elsie stepped forward. “We’ve been gone longer than six days,” she said, catching Missouri’s eye, then turning to Dean. “Much, much longer.”

“How long?” Castiel prompted.

Elsie and Missouri exchanged glances, then looked back. “Nearly three weeks?” Elsie said.

Missouri sighed. It had been such a long time. An eternity, it felt like.

Dean blanched. “No way. No – no, it’s been less than a week.”

“Time doesn’t pass the same up here, Dean,” Castiel said. “Gods of the Meridian are manipulators of time, and life.”

“We don’t get hungry here,” Elsie said. “We don’t need to eat, either, which is lucky, because there’s no food.” She gestured quickly towards the portal Dean and Castiel had entered by. “That one you came through, it’s new. Does it go home? The other one only goes one way, it’s not an exit.”

Castiel looked at the new portal, then nodded as he turned back to Elsie. “We can use it to leave.” His eyes lowered to the bird skulls that Missouri and Elsie had been wearing. “What were those things?”

Elsie shook her head; she didn’t know. “These creatures are only affected by things from this realm. Rocks, mostly. There’s silver in the stream; they can’t touch the water.”

“Things from this realm...” Dean took a breath and turned to Castiel. “Is that why you could kill them?”

“They don’t die, honey,” Missouri said, filling up with the sad kind of fear she had come to feel any time those creatures were around, or discussed. “They scoot off someplace else for a few hours, then they come back.” She lifted her own bird skull. “We stole their heads so they couldn’t see their way around, but they only grow the damn things back.”

She sighed, then her eyes drifted to a point in the distance, a long way through the trees. She couldn’t see the palace from here, but it was in that direction. “We fought ‘em off every time they came for us – and with these skulls on like hats, they don’t seem to see us.” She gave Dean a grim smile. “That’s the only reason we ain’t been taken yet.”

“Taken,” Dean repeated. “Everyone else is alive too?!”

Missouri’s subtle smile became genuinely pleased, and she gave a nod, but Elsie’s face lowered.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked Elsie. “They’re alive, that’s gotta be the best thing I’ve heard all day!”

“We’ve gone up to the palace and back a few times,” Elsie said, shaking her head and avoiding Dean’s gaze. “All the people – Teresa, she’s there – they’re being held in cages. But me and Missouri can’t get through the front gate. Seems like the only way to get in is by getting captured by the bird-skull creatures.”

“And that’s not an option,” Dean agreed. He looked over at Castiel. “Thoughts?”

Castiel took a short breath, thinking. “Possibly the gate requires a resident of the realm to open it. Or— No, that can’t be right, you’re clearly living here now too. And I’m certainly not a resident any more.” He shook his head, and Missouri’s renewed hope began to trickle away. Castiel sighed, “I can’t open the gate, I don’t know how. There wasn’t a palace when I was here last.” He gestured up at the trees. “There wasn’t a forest. Everything would have been incomprehensible to you – a god’s understanding of reality is far different to a human’s. But now this place looks much like Earth. I can’t explain it. I don’t know how to navigate this.”

“We know,” Missouri said gently. “Elsie and me, we know our way around. We can guide you. We can go to the palace now, there’s no use in delaying.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, with impressive grace. Missouri felt a little taken with him – aside from her own boys, she’d never met a white man who didn’t mind being given instructions by a woman, let alone a black woman or a native.

“Leave the bags,” Elsie said. “Thank you for bringing them, but they make running too hard. We can collect them later.”

The doubt and defeat was clear in Elsie’s voice, but Missouri made no comment about it. She felt the same, not knowing if going to the palace would be any different this time, and if it was, none of them could be sure they would return afterwards.

They set the three bags down by the nearest tree, and Elsie took off the bag she carried too. Dean squinted at it suspiciously, clearly recognising it. Missouri didn’t want to say anything aloud; Dean would find out soon enough that Sam was a prisoner here too. Missouri and Elsie had spent nearly half a day picking up everything he and Charlie dropped.

Missouri began walking, her bird skull abandoned beside the bags. For something made of smoke, it was surprisingly heavy, and if she wanted to talk to Dean and Castiel, it was easier without the smell of carrion wafting through her head.

The others followed where Missouri led, and she looked back to watch them. Dean was walking beside Castiel as they matched Elsie’s pace.

“So what about getting through this gate, then,” Dean said, with understandable unease. “Maybe all it needs is someone with magic powers to open it.” He shrugged at Castiel. “You got power, so where’s the problem? Y’know, you should trust yourself more, Cas.”

Castiel held his eye. Eventually he gave a small smile, and Dean smirked back.

Missouri now watched the way ahead to see where she was going, but she heard Castiel’s reply. “I will try and open the gate for you. I make no promises that it will work, though. I was... exiled. From here. A long time ago.”

Dean was taken aback by that news. “You were exiled? Why?”

Castiel sighed. “I, um,” he started, “I didn’t like how my siblings went about mining for power. They would invade planets and kill its natives to take their magic from them, and then they would drain the magic from the planets themselves. The idea was, to say the least, severely disturbing to me.”

“That sounds familiar,” Elsie said coldly. Missouri glanced back, curious to see Castiel’s reaction, and she saw him peering past Dean to look at Elsie. Elsie caught his eye and explained. “White men did that to my people. They invaded our homeland and massacred us to take our property.”

Castiel’s face had gone from curious to horrified. He held his tongue as Elsie continued.

“Now my people live in their buildings and _their_ land. Places that are rightfully ours. Our tribes are forcefully moved from place to place by the government, away from sacred lands because we are _inconvenient_ to the white men.” She swallowed hard.

Missouri nodded to herself, jaw steeled. She led the others over a small stream, and heard them splashing behind her.

“When I was young,” Elsie went on, “I was kidnapped from my tribe. Then I was assigned a new name inspired by Christian tradition. Forced into a Christian school, taught Christian values. I’m still not allowed to see my people. Now—” Her breath stuttered, and Missouri could hear her trying hard to control her voice, most likely hiding tears as well. “Now I teach English to other kidnapped natives.”

Missouri still remembered the day Elsie had been brought into Black Hills Outpost by the missionaries. Her kicking and screaming hadn’t stopped for weeks, and neither had the beatings. It was only after Missouri caught her running away one night, into the forest, that Missouri brought her home and sheltered her. She’d slept in the room next to Dean and Sam. The boys had never known.

“Don’t fight it,” Missouri had said to Little Goat, that night. “Play along with the white men’s stories, take the name they give you, sing their hymns and learn their language, but keep your own. Don’t let them shatter your heart. Keep your faith hidden for when you need it, keep it fed like a fire, and one day you will be strong enough to melt the links and throw off the chains.”

The young Elsie had argued. She wished to leave that very night, to run into the forest and never return.

There were bad things in the forest, Missouri had replied. At that time, the worst had been coyotes or bears, perhaps the occasional man. Now there were things from a different Hell.

Elsie was still talking, her voice shaking. Missouri listened, despite knowing the story already.

“When Teresa came to my class, I found out she was from my Lakota tribe. I took her in as my family, she became my sister. She is _everything_ to me, she is so much more than family. I have to protect her, she is all I have left of my origin. Of my religion, of my beliefs. No matter how many classes I teach on English literature, or how many hymns I sing, I will always be Lakota. And I can never tell anyone, because I fear death at the hands of white men. Always.” Missouri looked back to see Elsie wearing a hateful, sneering smile, sharp at the corners. “White men? You are a race of thieves.”

Missouri’s eyes turned to Dean, and she continued watching him as she walked. He was chewing the insides of his cheeks, clearly wanting to defend himself, and remind Elsie that he wasn’t like them, not like the other white men. He’d been raised by a black woman, that made him different. Missouri didn’t take any shit.

But Missouri caught his eye, and she shook her head. “Elsie ain’t talkin’ about you, baby. If she meant you, she never would’ve said what she said. She trusts you, Dean. So don’t you go tellin’ anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t,” Dean said quickly, turning his eyes to Elsie. “But – you do mean me.” He looked at Missouri again. “She means me. I was born with white skin, the whites treat me like a white. I don’t get the shit you get. Nobody bumps me to the back of the line at the store, nobody sticks me in the back car of the train, nobody spits on me. I don’t talk all fancy like most of them do, but nobody calls me – that thing they call you. I don’t wanna say it. Nobody wants to kill me just ‘cause I was born. No matter how I look at it, your lives are shittier than mine, and you can’t work around it.”

Missouri gave Dean a soft look over her shoulder, and let Elsie talk again.

“Someday, me and Teresa are going to run. Go back to our tribe. And there will be no white men, ever again.”

They travelled together over a stone bridge, water rushing below. It was quiet for a while.

Castiel’s deep voice gave the first reply, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said. “Elsie. Missouri. Truly... I am ashamed on behalf of my vessel’s people. I had some idea about what happens to people of non-white descent – I remember Elsie mentioned it before. My vessel – Jimmy – he was familiar with the slave trade, but I thought that was over. Until now I had no idea of the extent of people’s cruelty. I still don’t think I have much of an understanding. Just awareness.”

“Cas,” Dean said softly. Missouri glanced back and saw a tender look in Dean’s eye, one she hadn’t seen before. Dean wore a small smile, eyes still resting on Castiel’s face. 

Then Dean looked over at Elsie, then flicked his eyes to Missouri. “Me too,” he said. “I’m real sorry the world is so set against you.”

Elsie nodded gently. She gave no thanks and neither did Missouri; there was no sense in thanking someone for _not_ hurting or killing them, even if the words were from the mouth of her own adopted son and his supernatural friend, who happened to be walking peculiarly close to his side.

“Their hearts are in the right place, at least,” Missouri said to Elsie, and smiled when Elsie smirked.

Soon, a shape appeared from between the trees ahead. “That’s the palace,” Missouri said to Dean and Castiel, who both made sounds of amazement.

“It’s a really, really big house,” Dean said, coming to a stop where Missouri stopped. They were ten feet from the big, black gates. The gates sloped taller in the middle, and despite having no visible lock, Missouri knew they didn’t even shiver when pushed.

“I don’t know if I can open it,” Castiel said.

“Go on,” Missouri said, reaching back and giving his elbow a reassuring touch. “Never know until you try.”

Castiel took a breath, nodding once to Missouri. He went forward, one hand out to touch the gate.

He didn’t even touch it before the gate opened, swinging silently. Elation and surprise filled Missouri from head to toe, and she saw Castiel turn around to face her, with much the same mixture of emotions on his face.

“Get inside now, before it shuts,” Elsie said, hitching up her shredded dress and entering the grounds. Everyone else followed; the gateway was wide enough for all four of them to enter side by side.

The ground crunched slightly. It seemed there was gravel under their shoes, hidden beneath layers and layers of autumn leaves. Elsie slowed as she made it to the edge of the path, where the green tips of a well-kept lawn showed through between the leaves.

“There’s them cages,” Missouri said under her breath, trying to control the swooping chills inside her. “Don’t run, Elsie. Go slow, don’t let anything startle.”

Elsie picked her way across the grass, clearly exercising great restraint. She was breathing hard, her eyes alive and wild, her plait swinging over her shoulders as she looked from left to right.

Now Missouri was closer, she saw the palace was an impossibly large mansion, coloured in shades of fading black. Its shadow was daunting, cast at exactly the right angle to allow light to illuminate its windowsills but not the windows, the ivy on its front but not the bricks.

They got closer and closer to the cages, and Missouri looked back to check on Dean and Castiel. They were holding hands. When Dean noticed she was looking, he dropped Castiel’s hand and darted away a step, eyes full of alarm. Castiel turned after him, wearing a frown of confusion. “What’s wrong, Dean?” he asked.

Missouri could only smile and turn back to the cages, which were thirty feet away. They were much larger than she’d thought.

Consternation filled her when she saw a flick of red hair and a red dress. She would know that girl anywhere. Charlie was inside the middle cage, lying on the ground while everyone else in the cages sat up, watching the group approach.

“No— No!” Elsie started to run.

Missouri ran after her, shouting, “Elsie, be careful!”

“Charlie!”

Elsie dropped to the grass and reached for the cage, and Missouri got there in time to hear someone shout, “DON’T!” before Elsie’s hand grasped one of the bars.

Light struck Elsie from her hand to her heart, and she was sent sprawling backwards.

Terror consumed Missouri as she reached Elsie and knelt beside her head, hands touching her hair. She saw Elsie blink with already-closed eyelids, and the sky’s light in her face showed a new change: her skin was speckling with marks which faded in moments, but left her skin loose; in places, her hair became streaked with grey from the roots. The flesh below her chin began to sag, her breath came out ragged, and when she opened her eyes in shock, Missouri saw her pupils were not as bright as they used to be.

The process seemed to have stopped, but Missouri was now looking down at a woman the same age as herself.

“Oh, Lord,” Missouri said in horror. She sensed the presence of Dean and Castiel either side of her, but she paid them no attention. “Oh, Elsie, what’s happened to you?”

“It’s the cage,” said a young, weighty voice with a Lakota accent, from a shadow inside the cage. “Touch it, and you lose years of your life.” Despite the massive change in pitch, Missouri would know Teresa’s voice anywhere. She ought to have felt overjoyed to have found her, but the feeling was muted by Elsie’s transformation.

Elsie sat up, guided by Missouri’s arms. She looked into Missouri’s eyes, and she was _old_. Missouri herself had rarely felt old, but seeing Elsie’s life halved reminded her she hadn’t been young for most of her lifetime.

Castiel made a quiet sound. “The gods... my kind, the ones who made these cages... they feast on life. Elsie’s youth was a meal for them. When we eat, that energy is converted into the prevention of decay. The gods here, they made themselves powerful, while Elsie’s life was replaced with age. It’s irreversible. I’m— I’m so sorry.”

Teresa’s strong-jawed face became clear through the shadow, and she moved closer to the edge of the cage. “Can you get us out of here?”

Castiel licked his lips. “I can try.”

Missouri gave Castiel a nod when he looked her way.

He stood, and moved close to the cage.

But then a shout came from another cage, and Missouri recognised Sam’s voice. “Dean! Behind you!”

In an instant, Dean darted to his feet, dodging a bird creature. He dropped to his knees to get a stone, but he couldn’t find anything. “Cas!” he shouted. “Cas, help me!”

Castiel was already on his feet, charging the monster down with a light growing in his palm, but the creature turned on its skeletal feet, an arm raised to grip Castiel around the throat. Castiel flailed at it, but its arm was too long and he couldn’t reach its head. He whacked it on the arm instead, and it recoiled, letting go of him, and he had a chance to run to Dean’s side.

Missouri was swept full of terror as the bird creature turned on her and Elsie, but she didn’t have the strength to pull Elsie up to her feet. They stayed down, Missouri’s eyes blazing with awareness of the situation and every available escape route, but she couldn’t move.

“Here!” An arm thrust through the bars of the cage, and Missouri took the silver rock from Teresa’s hand. She threw it at the bird creature. It should have been a perfect hit to its ribs, but the monster swirled its smoke around the rock and the projectile flew straight through.

Dean dove to the ground behind the creature. The falling rock landed in his hand and he threw it at the back of the beast’s head.

The creature vanished in a puff of smoke, red eyes flaring in anger.

Missouri stared ahead, panting hard. Dean was lying on his belly in the grass, and Castiel knelt over him, checking he was okay. Dean then got to his feet, pushing Castiel away. He went to the first of the three cages, and stood stock-still as he stared inside.

Missouri grasped Elsie’s hand, holding tight. Together they watched Castiel place his handful of light on the cage Dean was most interested in. The bars of the cage – rib bones, Missouri now realised – cracked and lifted up, splintering as they had no hinges.

The first person to emerge from the cage was Sam Winchester. His tall, gangly form walked straight into Dean’s arms, and Dean gripped him so tight Missouri wondered if they might suffocate each other.

She was so relieved to see both boys alive and unharmed, but she couldn’t escape the knowledge that they weren’t safe yet. There were over thirty people here and every one of them was still in danger.

Other captives flooded out now the first cage was open. Castiel then opened Teresa’s cage, and Missouri helped Elsie to stand so she could embrace her sister. Elsie’s hands grasped Teresa’s hair, her face screwed up against her shoulder. Missouri felt a weight lifted from her burdened soul, emotion bubbling and bursting in her, and she let herself tremble as she smiled. Tear tracks ran down her face when she saw the absolute relief in Teresa’s face. Teresa was as old as Sam now, and almost as tall, but she still looked the same as the day she’d been taken, with long plaited hair, a sturdy, square face and beautiful copper skin. Her yellow dress was too small now.

Castiel opened the final cage, and moments later was brought into a group hug by everyone who had been released from that prison. Missouri caught a glimpse of his face, and she smiled shakily as she saw he was on the verge of weeping too, moved by the emotion of the crowd.

“I want to go home,” Teresa sobbed, wiping her hand across her wet face. “Please. Please, let’s go back.”

She may have looked twenty-two, but she was still a thirteen-year-old girl inside. After everything else she’d lost, she’d lost her childhood too. It was heartbreaking, and so, so wrong.

“Charlie,” Elsie said, tottering forward on shock-weakened legs, holding onto Missouri for balance. Charlie emerged from the cage last, hanging on the arm of a balding woodcutter. Charlie’s hand was bound in maroon cloth from her dress, her face was pale and her red hair was loose and tangled, but her eyes were still young. She pulled Elsie into a mighty hug, breathing against her shoulder.

Elsie stroked her hair again and again, hushing her. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right. We’re going home.”

Missouri took Teresa’s hand, then summoned the attention of several other people with a wave, nodding them towards the open gates. They started to walk, holding onto other people. Their clothes were too small, or too big; they walked hunched over, if not from age, then from the prolonged fear of standing straight and touching the cages, and they seemed wary, as if they would be forced back into the traps at any moment.

Missouri looked back as she heard a shout. “Charlie! Charlie no, what are you doing?! Stop! STOP!”

Paying no heed to Elsie’s cry, Charlie’s uninjured hand gripped the bar of the cage. Its smoke turned white and ran up her arm, striking her heart as it had done for Elsie.

Charlie collapsed to the ground. Elsie struggled to kneel beside her, but when she did, she lifted Charlie and cradled her to her chest. “No,” Elsie wailed. “No-oo, nooo, why did you do that?” Her voice was loud, and the crowd was silent; everyone heard her.

Charlie stirred, sitting up by herself. Elsie bent forward, hiding her face in her hands, but Charlie got to her feet with determined force, then lifted Elsie up. After months of being weak, she had found strength from deep within, and she used it to pull Elsie into a careful, loving kiss.

A murmur of shock went up from the people around Missouri, but nobody gave any overtly negative reaction. Missouri set a hand to her heart, eyes welling with tears again. She had been waiting for a resolution between Charlie and Elsie for many years now, but she’d never expected it to be like this. Eyes watching, the air filled with tension, foreboding and loss.

When Elsie and Charlie fell apart, Charlie caressed Elsie’s cheek. Missouri was too far away to see her smile, but she was absolutely sure she smiled.

Elsie’s hand took Charlie’s, looking down to see it was uninjured. Then she held it, and turned towards the crowd and walked forwards. Charlie walked beside her, tucking her greying hair behind her ear.

The crowd stayed where they were, menhirs of observation and shock. Elsie and Charlie walked between them as if the others were no more filled with judgement than a group of standing stones. They passed Missouri, and Missouri caught Elsie’s eye: Elsie smirked. She was crying, she was _heartbroken_ , but she was happy. Charlie looked, in a word, stoic.

Missouri felt another tear roll down her own cheek as she turned to watch the two magically-aged women go to the head of the crowd and lead them on through the gates. Teresa hurried to walk with them, shooting a glance back to Missouri. Missouri nodded and let her go. Her yellow dress flipped up around her knees as she ran, hair bouncing at her back.

Missouri was about to leave through the gates too, but she paused when she saw that Dean, Castiel and Sam hadn’t moved.

“Ain’t you interested in getting these folks home?” she asked, looking at each of them in turn. Sam seemed eager to leave, but hesitated on Dean’s behalf. Dean was holding Castiel’s hand where Sam couldn’t see, and looked away before Missouri could meet his eye.

“I have important matters to attend to here,” Castiel said, giving Missouri a nod. “I should be with you shortly.”

Missouri looked at Sam, but Sam licked his lips. “I’ll, uh, stay with them,” he said, glancing unsurely at the other men.

Dean shook his head, turning to his brother. “Get outta here, Sam. You were never meant to be here.”

“What did you expect me to do?” Sam said, but he said it softly. “I never got your letter saying you were fine, just Missouri’s one saying you were in danger. If there’s anything to blame for this, it’s the country’s lack of an instant messaging service.”

Dean gave a huge sigh, eyes rolling to the sky, then to the ground. “Go with Missouri, Sam. We’ll join you in a minute.”

Sam hesitated again, but then Missouri tipped her head towards the gate, Sam nodded and began to follow her.

They passed the palace threshold, and walked on to meet the tail end of the group.

“You knew I would come down from California for Dean,” Sam said, glancing at Missouri.

“Of course I knew,” Missouri said. “I know more than most people give me credit for.”

Sam shot a quick look back towards the palace, then huffed. “Did you— Uh. Did you know about Charlie and Elsie?”

“Yes,” Missouri said. “Don’t you tell me you didn’t.”

Sam’s mouth rounded a curious shape, and he blinked. “I wondered. The way Charlie talked about her while we were going through the forest, it was hard not to notice, or make connections.”

“Ah,” Missouri smiled, giving Sam an amused side-eye. Sam smiled nervously, then gulped. “Don’t let it scare you, honey. It’s just love, same as any other love.”

Sam nodded after a moment. “Just love,” he repeated.

After a few minutes, Sam went ahead to talk to a friend he’d made in the cage, a man named Edward Black Running Coyote, who Missouri had known for years. In Sam’s place, Teresa fell back to hold Missouri’s hand again.

“You doing all right, child?” Missouri asked her, finding it strange that Teresa was now taller than her.

Teresa didn’t nod, and instead trained her eyes on the leaf-strewn ground. Her jaw had filled out, and Missouri saw muscle straining at the seams of her dress’ sleeves. “Benjamin came in after me,” she said. “The mayor’s son. He was trying to rescue me and he got caught too.”

Missouri raised her eyebrows at that confession. “He’s a friend of yours?”

Teresa nodded. “We didn’t tell anybody because— Well. You know.”

A white boy and a native girl. That was almost as bad as the white girl and the native girl currently leading the group through the forest.

They crossed the bridge, heading back for the portal.

Teresa and Missouri walked in silence for a long while. Then, Teresa took a breath to speak. Her voice was startlingly deep, but she was regulating it, so it came out lighter, softer. “We don’t get hungry here. If it weren’t for the cages, none of us would age at all. I think I understand why Charlie did what she did back there, making herself old. She didn’t want to be young while Elsie got old without her. But that means they’ll die sooner. If they stayed here...” Teresa looked cautiously at Missouri, “They would never die if they stayed here.”

Missouri offered the girl a smile. “When you get to be my age—”

“How old are you?”

Missouri laughed. She’d missed Teresa’s bluntness. “Somewhere between forty and fifty-two, I forget what the number is. But when you make it through as many years as I have, you start to realise there’s no point in living forever. Aches and pains slow you down, but at the end of the day, knowing you’re gonna keel over someday soon gives you the drive to make good in the world. Most people I know would embrace it when it comes, knowin’ they lived a good life.”

“But Elsie and Charlie, they don’t have much time.”

“They got plenty of time! Trust me, child, they got time.”

Teresa nodded slowly, letting the words sink in.

When they came to the portal, the group gathered around it, waiting on Elsie’s instructions. People complained, but she insisted they wouldn’t leave without Castiel and Dean.

Teresa pulled Missouri aside suddenly, and they hid behind a tree. Missouri grew concerned by the anxiety Teresa exuded, and looked about her, silently asking what was wrong.

“There’s another reason,” Teresa said, eyes turned down. “A reason I don’t want to go back to Black Hills.”

Missouri expected the reason was about her tie to the Lakota tribe, but she was surprised to hear Teresa say, gently, “The hair on my face never grew when the cage made me an adult. It would never grow in this place, but it would grow in Black Hills. Everyone will find out I was born as a boy. The people in my cage never said anything to me, but they knew. I don’t— I just don’t want people to know. I want to stay a girl.”

Missouri felt a sinking sigh escape her, and her protective instinct made her move forward and wrap Teresa in a hug. Teresa gave her a hard squeeze back, then fell away, wiping her tears from her eyes as she sniffed.

“There’s always ways,” Missouri assured her. “Getting rid of hair is easy as one-two-three, once you know how.”

Teresa’s eyes gleamed with hope, and Missouri stood on her tiptoes to put a kiss on the little girl’s forehead. “You been cursed by all the worst curses, honey. I never knew anyone who’s been through more hell than you have. And you’re gonna be fine, you hear me? You’re fine.”

Teresa nodded, still sniffling. “I’m fine.”

Missouri stroked her smooth cheek, and smiled when Teresa leaned into the touch. “Let’s get back to that portal and wait for those boys, shall we?”


	14. Selflessness

“I don’t get it, why is nothing happening?” Dean asked. He stood with his hands on his hips two feet behind Castiel, whose arms were clearly getting tired from all the slow-motion waving around. The glow in his hands was fading in his fatigue, and Dean wondered how long it would be until he collapsed into a dead faint, too in need of rest to stay conscious.

Castiel sighed and let his arms drop, slouching forwards as he returned to Dean’s side. “My guess is they’re too busy fighting to pay attention. We just removed their power source from under their noses and they haven’t noticed yet.”

“They like to fight a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Figures, given they’re family.” Dean pulled a bland expression. “So, are we gonna have to camp out here until they notice? You look like you’re about to drop, and I don’t think I can carry you all the way back, I’m kind of exhausted too.” He grappled with Castiel’s weight as he sagged against him. “God-dammit. Sam should’ve stayed behind, he’s stronger than me.”

Castiel shook his head, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder and using him to keep himself upright. “The other most likely scenario,” he breathed, “is that they’re waiting until I give up before coming out to see us.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Castiel lifted his head and sighed. “Because they’re _dicks_.”

The front door opened at that exact moment, growling like it was made of stone, swivelling on a stone porch. It probably was, Dean realised.

A pale human man sauntered out. He put one hand on the gigantic stone bannister, then trotted down the stairs. He swaggered across the leaf-covered gravel with his arms out to his sides in welcome, and he skipped a few times, kicking up leaves.

“Little rainstorm!” cried the man, as he strode up to Dean and Castiel. He had mid-length blonde hair, swept back over his head in a stylish quiff, and a moustache that didn’t quite match the hair on his head, being a little darker. He came close enough that Dean saw him clearly, and he spied a gleeful shine in the man’s eyes.

Castiel pushed himself up straight, tugging on his brown waistcoat and ragged shirt sleeves like he was uncomfortable.

The man stuck out his hand, and Castiel harrumphed, refusing to shake. The man turned his golden eyes on Dean, quirking an eyebrow, but Dean folded his arms. “No way. He don’t shake, I ain’t shaking. As far as I know you’re the bastard who kidnapped my brother, along with a class of other innocent people.”

“Gotta hand it to us, though,” the man chirped. “Our methods are new and improved!”

Castiel snapped, “Kidnapping people and drawing their life force out of them is _not_ a great deal better, Trickster.”

“Ah-buh-buh! I don’t go by that any more, Thunder. It’s Gabriel now.”

“ _Gabriel_?!” Dean scoffed, unfolding his arms. “As in, the messenger of God, Gabriel?”

Gabriel made a cheerful sound. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me!”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him and scoffed again, completely perplexed.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “ _Gabriel_ , why are you human? Why do you have a human face? Is this a vessel? Did you ask before taking it?”

“You and your obsession with consent! I’d have thought you’d be over that by now.”

Castiel huffed like a bull, glaring full-force at his sibling.

“Fine, fine, let me explain,” Gabriel said, wafting around a hand. “Me and the family have gotten into humanity recently. Such fascinating creatures, aren’t they?” Gabriel reached forward and pinched one of Dean’s cheeks and waggled it, only pulling off when Dean swung a punch at him. Gabriel leaned backwards and the punch missed. He popped back up, unfazed by the twin glares he was receiving.

“We like their pretty houses,” Gabriel said, gesturing up at the mansion. “And their trees. And their face fluff!” He pointed excitedly at his moustache, which wiggled. “Oh, not to mention their life force. Very tasty. Positively scrumptious.”

Castiel growled and turned around, pacing in a tiny, furious circle before coming back to Dean’s side. Dean restrained his anger and said nothing; this was Castiel’s argument. Castiel shoved a firm finger under Gabriel’s chin. “In all the years I’ve been gone, you learned nothing. You didn’t listen to me. If you weren’t immortal, mark my words, I would try my utmost to murder you where you stand.”

“What a fine hypocrite you make, Thunder. After all your talk about no-murder this, no-murder that.”

Castiel seethed.

Gabriel gave a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes back and sinking on bent knees. He then pulled himself up to his full height (a good few inches shorter than Dean) and straightened his checkered smoking jacket, then his tie. “You haven’t noticed, have you?”

“Noticed what?” Castiel asked, taking the bait.

“That we let you walk straight in and pluck your precious townsfolk off our lawn. And I thought you were the smart one.”

“So what’s the deal?” Dean demanded. “Why’d you let us take them?”

“Because, extraordinarily angry man, _something_ of what Thunder was ranting and raving about before we exiled him actually went ahead and sunk in. We forgive you, little rainstorm. You’re welcome back into the Meridian, ad infinitum.”

Castiel’s anger withered into confusion, and he frowned as he stared at Gabriel. “You kidnapped people... because I...”

“Because you told us murder was bad, yes,” Gabriel said, looking awfully pleased with himself.

Castiel turned his sorry eyes on Dean, and Dean gave a soft shake of his head: _It’s not your fault_. Castiel swallowed, lowered his gaze, then looked back at Gabriel.

“I don’t want to be part of the Meridian,” Castiel said, “not if this is the kind of suffering you continue to inflict upon creation. Kidnapping is also a bad thing to do. Those people are traumatised, and their lives have been shortened considerably. Someone told me Charlotte’s mother is dead, and that wouldn’t have happened the way it did if you hadn’t interfered. That counts as murder.”

Gabriel had the grace to look sheepish, but Dean wasn’t buying it.

“I got a question,” he said, drawing Gabriel’s attention. “Why mark the Earth with a pentagram, huh?” He lifted his wrist and waggled his silver bracelet. “What’ve these got to do with you?”

“How else do we flag down an outcast who stated explicitly in his exile contract he was never to be contacted, ever, under any circumstances?”

Castiel huffed, looking like he would very much like to sock Gabriel on the nose a few times over. Dean could relate. But Gabriel’s answer pulled another question from Dean’s lips: “How did you know it would be me hired for the case? Me with this bracelet? Me with all the symbols?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re the only ones with a fortune teller in your midst? No, we saw it coming. And we planned accordingly. We even set some things in motion. There’s a little boy – oh, sorry, _girl_. There’s a girl out there with a friend who happens to be the son of a rather stubborn mayor. We may have, uhm, how to say... locked the kids in a cupboard for an hour. And that only came about because there was no telling that the old mayor wouldn’t care unless his own son got took.”

“You didn’t account for race discrimination,” Dean intoned. He gave a mirthless huff of laughter, rolling his tongue over his lower lip. “Yeah, okay. I get it. That’s why it took twenty-eight tries before I got summoned to Black Hills.” He stared at the ground, feeling a mild hysteria simmering beneath his skin.

“And why was it so important?” Castiel said, poking Gabriel in the chest. “What was it you wanted me for?”

“To show you our new system, of course!” Gabriel threw his arms up, showering confetti from his hands. “Surprise! Kidnapping is better than murder!”

Dean stared at the god before him and blinked. “You’re kidding me.” He looked at Castiel, who looked back. “He’s fucking kidding us right now, right? This is a joke?”

Castiel’s expression did not change. “I’m afraid not, Dean.”

Dean shut his eyes and tried to hold in his giggle. This was not happening. He couldn’t even begin to list all the ways this was fucked up.

“Gabriel,” Castiel said, very calmly. “I am leaving, right now. I am taking every single one of your victims with me, and you will _not_ contact me again. You will not kidnap, you will not murder. You will not, in any way, harm another living creature, do you understand? Stay away from Earth. Earth is mine. Its people are mine. Its skies and its magic, it is all _mine_.”

“Getting a wee be possessive there, don’t ya think?” Gabriel grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Castiel. He then cocked his head in Dean’s direction. “He yours too?”

Castiel took Dean’s hand and wrapped his fingers tight around him. “Yes.”

Gabriel stepped back, eyebrows lifting then settling in apparent defeat. “Well, okay then, Thunder. If you insist. Boy, you’re really never happy with anything, are you?”

“Not when you do it,” Castiel said.

“But,” Gabriel said, raising a finger before Castiel could pull Dean away. “If kidnapping doesn’t meet with your approval either, how are we all going to eat? We’ll all starve and waste away until we’re nothing but skin and bone, like the osseusi.”

Dean squinted. “Ossy-what?”

“The bonebird things. They’re fun, aren’t they? Designed them myself.”

Castiel ignored the divergence. “You won’t waste away. You’re immortal. You can’t starve.”

“But our magic will get all tired and flabby, and that’s close enough to dying that we might as well,” Gabriel said. “And what about you, huh? Living out your days on Earth, sucking magic out of your lover’s you-know-what. How come _you_ get to have all the fun?”

Castiel batted Gabriel’s reaching hand away from Dean.

“What does he mean?” Dean muttered to Castiel. “I have magic?”

“Your love and affection powers me,” Castiel explained, then returned his attention to the other god. “There are better ways to acquire magic than by stealing it, Gabriel.”

“I can think of one good way, actually,” Gabriel said, tilting his head. The motion was a far cry from the way Cas tilted his head; on Gabriel it was just plain annoying.

“What way is that, pray tell?” Castiel said, squeezing on Dean’s hand, apparently nervous.

Dean then understood why Castiel was nervous. He must’ve guessed what Gabriel was about to suggest.

“You give us your magic,” Gabriel said. “That oughta feed the whole bunch of us for a tidy century or two. Self-renewing, too. What was it you said, way back when? It’s like the way the sea evaporates, collects clouds, then rains back into the sea. A fresh cycle every time.”

Dean tugged on Castiel’s hand. “Cas, don’t let them take it.”

Castiel shook his head, casting his eyes to Dean’s. “If I give my power to the Meridian, it will make an immense difference. Earth would be safe from these incompetent fools. Life on other planets would be safe. No god was ever selfless enough to give up their power for anything, let alone for something or someone else.”

Gabriel grinned. “I know what you’re thinking, _Cas_. It was mean of me to ask you to do something selfless, because you’re exactly the type of person who would do it just to prove you _are_ as selfless as all that. Well, you know what I say to that?” Gabriel smirked, then winked at Castiel. “I’m a manipulative bastard. So! How shall we proceed, champ? Deal or no deal?”

“Cas, don’t you shake his hand. Cas.”

Castiel was already reaching, and no amount of batting at his shoulder or shoving made any difference. “Cas, think of the forest,” Dean insisted. “It’ll decay without you. All that beauty going to waste! And the spirits, what would they say?”

“They will understand,” Castiel said, and he shook Gabriel’s hand.

Light began to emerge from Castiel’s hand, brighter than Dean had seen it in days. It got brighter, and brighter, until it was so bright he had to look away. He watched the light bleed across the lawn, running in rivulets and shimmering darts, like overexcited minnows. Dean heard a faint whining, which became a whistle, then a blare of sound he had to cover his ears to protect himself from. He panted, needing to shut his eyes; even with his back turned, the light was of ferocious intensity.

Silver. Silver was the last thing he saw.

He fell with a thump into damp leaves, and he breathed in the smell of earth.

_Earth_. Real soil, damp from the rain, which must have fallen even without Castiel’s help. Dean was home.

He looked up, seeing numerous human figures moving in the gloom. It was past sunset, but it was not yet dark. The forest was shady, and the sky carried a faint lilac across the world, streaked with orange. It was bitterly cold, and Dean tucked his hands under his armpits as soon as he was standing.

“Everyone all right?” came Missouri’s warbling voice. “Should we do a head count?”

The group bustled for a bit in the halfway-dark, muttering and calling out names. Once it was established that nobody was missing, and that their bags had been returned too, people began to relax.

“Your gun,” Castiel said, going up to Dean’s side. He had the shotgun with deer on it in his hands, and he handed it to Dean.

“Thanks,” Dean said. “Where are we?”

“On the other side of the trees beside the pool, where we left,” Castiel replied. “Gabriel must have dropped us all off.”

“Nice of him,” Dean muttered darkly. “And what about your power?”

“Gone,” Castiel said, then turned away.

“Everyone,” he called. “Your town is to the east. If you could all please follow Missouri, she knows the way. Do not be alarmed by the magical forest. The forest spirits created the tunnel to protect you, although it has its faults. Oh, and don’t eat the mushrooms, they’ll give you a stomach ache.”

Dean chuckled at the last advisement. “Sounds like you learned from experience.”

Castiel hummed, still looking around distractedly. “What day is it?”

“I think it was Thursday when we left,” Dean said.

Sam approached, carrying Dean’s mud-stained bag. “Time works differently up there,” he said, standing opposite Dean and Castiel. “I was told that you and— Um, you and Cas – you came after me the same day I went up there with Charlie. But it felt like several days. Charlie had long enough to heal her hand, as well as mourn her mother, at least for the immediate grief. If I took a guess, it’s only been a couple of hours since you left.”

Dean swallowed, feeling a terrible nausea. He assumed ‘Charlie’ was a shortened version of Charlotte’s name, but finding out her mother had died up there was a severe blow to Dean’s sense of accomplishment. He wondered what the gods had done with the body. Without a body Charlie could only have a memorial, the same as Dean and Sam had had for their mother. It wasn’t the same.

When Dean realised Cas had left his side, he scouted the area in search of him. The townsfolk were half gone, having picked up their belongings and followed each other off home.

“Hey,” Sam said, cautiously, pulling on Dean’s elbow to draw his attention. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

Sam’s eyes slunk down, then back up. “Cas. He’s not human.”

“No, he’s a god,” Dean said. “Supernatural being. Magical. Well, not any more, but he was.”

“But... you trust him?”

Dean gave a soft smirk. “Yeah. He’s a good guy, Sammy.”

When Sam nodded in thought, Dean whacked him lightly on the shoulder and turned to look for Cas again.

Charlie and Elsie were two of the few people who remained, and Dean forgot about Cas for a moment to go and talk to the women.

“Hey,” he said gently, approaching with a shyness he hadn’t meant to exhibit. “You two doing okay?”

Charlie looked up through her once-red fringe, then puffed the hair out of her eyes. There were wrinkles under her eyes and an odd dusting of fluff on her jowls, but she was smiling. “We’re fine,” she said. Her hand was curled tenderly around Elsie’s neck, and Elsie turned her head to look at Dean.

“If it wasn’t for you,” Elsie said, “You and Castiel...”

“Are you kidding me? C’mon, it was nothin’,” Dean swatted the air, giving them a smile. “Honestly, I was just doing my job – and if you get down to it, I barely did anything at all. You deserve all the credit, it took some serious guts on your part. You go tell that mayor of yours how much ass you kicked today, all right? Maybe someone’ll listen to you for once.”

“Aren’t you coming back with us?” Charlie asked.

Dean shook his bowed head, sinking his hands into his pockets. “Not tonight. Stuff to do out here. But, uh, I just wanted to say congrats. On getting together. It was... um.” He took a breath. “It was real great seeing you up there. Not the magic aging thing, that was agony to watch, but the fact you did it? The way you were just... I don’t know. Happy to shorten your lifespan just for the sake of being with someone else, that—”

Dean caught sight of Castiel lurking in the shadows ahead, leaning against a tree, head down, arms folded. He’d just lost all his power, that probably made him mortal now.

Dean swallowed. He forced a smile and looked at Elsie and Charlie, reaching to pat both their arms. “I think it’s incredible. You two go have a happy life, I gotta go talk to somebody. And – I’m sorry about your mother, Charlie.”

“Thank you,” Elsie whispered, as she guided Charlie past. Charlie met Dean’s eye and nodded, and Dean nodded back.

Dean watched them go, watched them join Teresa so they could follow the others. Teresa’s lantern glowed with a beautiful orange. In the light, Dean noticed that Charlie was limping, and his heart felt tight with sympathy.

When the light receded and flickered away behind trees, Dean turned to Castiel.

Dean went up to him with his hands in his pockets, and licked his lips as he got close and rested his shoulder on the tree right beside him. “You feeling okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” Castiel said, then slipped away, going around the tree so Dean couldn’t look at him.

Dean sighed. He could see Sam through a collection of spruce trees, studying the area, or doing something else equally pointless. Dean still couldn’t believe his little brother was here rather than in California – but then again, he could believe he’d seen a god’s true form, ridden a dragon, and then gone to outer space and back all within the same day, so it stood to reason that Sam had managed to hop on a train and cross half a continent in order to attempt (and subsequently fail) a rescue mission.

“Cas,” Dean said quietly, knowing Castiel could hear him. Dean looked to the side, gazing at the forest pool, which was glowing like moonlight, despite there being no moon. “Talk to me, Cas.”

Castiel’s shaken laugh came from the other side of the tree. “What did I just do, Dean? What have I _done_?!”

Dean smiled gently. “You just gave up an entire universe-worth of power to save an actual universe from your shitty family.” He started to grin. “I had my reservations, I’ll admit – but you did good, Cas. There’s not many people who would give up what you gave up.”

“But Gabriel said it, he told the truth when he said I’m the sort of person who would do something selfless just because I’m too vain to let the opportunity go by. I want people to think I’m nice.”

“So you do nice things.” Dean smirked, feeling his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Cas, it doesn’t matter why you do nice things. If it’s for acceptance or love, that’s a perfectly reasonable motivation. And what about your family, huh? You don’t seem to care that they hate your guts, you legitimately want them to stop hurting people. You know what that tells me?”

“It tells you I can count, that’s what. Millions of humans on Earth outnumber the thirty gods in the Meridian.”

“But of those millions, that’s no more people who love you,” Dean countered. “You’re hidden away in a hut in the forest, Cas. Until I ran into you, nobody really knew you existed.”

“Apart from the town of people who ordered me dead.”

Dean tipped his head. “Apart from them, yeah.”

He took a deep breath, gazing up at the sky. It was nearly completely dark now, and the streaks of orange cloud had turned to a washed-out blue against the darkening violet dome. Tall spruce trees fluttered at the edges of Dean’s vision, swaying in the breeze. The air smelled like snow, but Dean doubted anything would fall tonight.

“I want to go home, Dean,” Castiel said quietly. “I’m... I’m tired. And hungry.”

Dean slowly made his way around the tree. He found Castiel hunched near its roots, arms wrapped around his knees. Dean crouched, fingers flicking at Castiel’s knee. “You mean the human kind of hungry, don’t you.”

Castiel nodded, not looking up. “May I please have a hug?”

Dean’s smile wobbled, and he leaned in to wrap his arms over Castiel’s head, keeping their faces sheltered in the small, quiet space. He put a kiss on Castiel’s cheek, leaving his lips pressed there.

“My affection gives you power, you said,” Dean whispered, putting another kiss closer to Castiel’s jaw. “What’re the chances a quick smoochin’ session will get you walking around? We got a long way to go to get to your hut, and no shortcuts.”

“There is a shortcut, actually,” Castiel said.

“Oh?”

Castiel looked up. “The portal beside the pool is still open.”

“Doesn’t that go to the Meridian?”

“It goes wherever the traveller thinks about going,” Castiel said, getting to his feet, using Dean as a support as he did. Dean stood too, looking for Sam. “That is,” Castiel went on, “unless the destination is predetermined. I imagine the portals Gabriel opened to abduct humans were of the latter kind.”

“Sam!” Dean called, waving his brother over.

Sam came closer, innocent curiosity in his puppydog eyes. He was too tall, he’d grown since Dean had left him in California. Must’ve been all that sun and orange juice, Dean thought. The kid even had a tan.

“What’s up?” Sam asked, still carrying Dean’s bag. “Are we going back to town?”

“Portal,” Dean said with a smirk. He liked knowing more about weird stuff than Sam, since weird stuff was Sam’s forte. “We’re going back to Cas’ place.”

“Oh,” Sam said. His eyes darted to Castiel, whose hand was warming the small of Dean’s back through his coat. Sam shifted awkwardly. “Can I come?”

Dean stood there beaming as Castiel put on his soft voice and said, “Of course, Sam. Any family of Dean’s is welcome in my house.”

Sam wore a big, somewhat daft smile all the way to the portal. No matter how big or tall or old Sam got, he would probably always be freakishly excited when Dean’s friends liked him.

His big, somewhat daft smile was wiped clean off his face when he saw the portal. Dean just laughed, and let Cas lead the way.


	15. Returning Home

“Brandy?” Missouri asked, offering for the fifth time. An exhausted man took her flask for a sip, then passed it on to Teresa. Teresa wiped the lip of the flask before tipping back a mouthful, then another, then Missouri snatched the flask back with a scold of “That’s enough.”

They had left the forest, but it was still a long way to the outpost; Missouri only saw the lamp-lit faces of those she travelled with in the dark, all of them breathless with relief and excitement, voices jittery and full of life despite all they’d lost through their ordeal. Missouri had been absent from the outpost for barely any time at all compared to everyone else, but still she longed for home.

She felt everyone’s energies culminating, building to a point where some began to sing hymns. Their lyrics were well-remembered, having been sung over and over while they had been trapped together.

Mere paces ahead of Missouri, Charlie chuckled to Elsie, whispering something which was probably perfectly innocent, but still private. Their bodies swayed together at the hip, hands holding. Charlie limped every few steps – at first Missouri assumed she was injured, but then Charlie paused for a moment to look at the sole of her boot, and discovered there was a shiny silver rock lodged deep in the rubber. She laughed and carried on walking, not bothering to remove it.

Soon enough, the lights of Black Hills Outpost shone through the dark, no more than yellow embers in the distance. Missouri heard the joy in the returning group, the shouts of “There! There it is!” and “We’re home!”

She laughed when a bony old man burst forward at a sprint, lantern held aloft and bobbing as he leapt barefoot over dewed grass. A middle-aged woman followed, then the young woman named Betty, who had recently been thirteen years old like Teresa.

Teresa laughed from beside Missouri, watching the man between them hurtle after the others, a whoop of exhilaration echoing in the dark.

“Aren’t you going to run, honey?” Missouri asked, swinging her lantern closer to Teresa so she could see her. “If you hang back with me you’ll be the last one here.”

“I don’t mind,” Teresa said, as another six people took off, holding hands. Charlie and Elsie looked over their shoulders to check on Missouri and Teresa, and Missouri nodded back.

Cries of “We’re back! We’re back, wake up!” filled the air from more than twenty voices, spread over a long distance now.

A deep, slow voice spoke from a short way behind Missouri. “I wonder what all the rescued people will tell their loved ones,” Edward Black Running Coyote said, as Missouri peered behind to see him. He didn’t have a lantern of his own, so couldn’t risk running in the dark. “Will they tell them the hunter led their way back home, or will they tell them the truth?”

Those ten people who remained walking said nothing more, only pondered the question.

Missouri heard the citizens of the outpost now: shouts of greeting and wails of unequivocal emotion cut through the night. Families had lost so much, and now all but one had been returned.

Missouri would never even consider she was solely responsible for the rescue mission’s success at long last, because she wasn’t. It had been a team effort more than anything, and Dean deserved the credit as much as Elsie did, or Castiel. However, she did feel a pulsing vein of pride in her heart, stepping up to the edge of the outpost’s dusty road and admiring the celebration that had already started.

Tears filled her eyes; she saw mothers bawling as their children ran to their arms, the same age as them now. Missouri’s tears spilled and nearly blotted out her view as she saw a little girl greet her father, arms up to embrace a man nearly bent in two by his elderly bones. That little girl’s younger sibling hung back, not recognising the man at all. The expression of shock on their mother’s face was more than enough to impress to Missouri how immensely improbable this situation was, how horrifying – and still, how much of a miracle it was that only one soul had passed on throughout these trials.

Missouri had nobody to greet, so she stood and watched a group of loggers roll an oil drum out into the street and set firewood alight inside it for warmth and illumination; she listened as fifteen people jabbered their stories of survival to those they loved.

And she sat in silence with the other fourteen, holding some of their hands at the side of the road, sitting on the porch of the pawnbroker’s shop. Their families had left the town while they were gone. Moved on and left them. These were hollow-eyed people, haunted and broken and so dearly in need of comfort.

“You made it,” Missouri told every one of them in turn. “You survived something no person should ever be required to live through. You are a _survivor_.” When they asked why their families had abandoned them, Missouri sighed. “Trust me when I say your family didn’t leave easy. They fought every step they took to leave, they looked back over their shoulders every second, prayin’ you’d walk out of that forest unharmed. They wished they could go in after you – like you did for the ones you loved. Look, see how you found them. You know the pain you went through. Be glad no more had to suffer it.” She cradled their faces or she touched their shoulders, and she said, ever so softly, “You take the time you need. Speak to everyone else who walked outta there, and you get yourself strong again. Then you go find your family. Show them you made it, because they’re drying up inside not knowing what happened. And, when you tell them your story, know somethin’ else. It ain’t the best story you’ll ever tell. The best stories for you are yet to be written. So much life ahead of you. You’ll do just fine.”

When Missouri stood straight, she took back her empty brandy flask and tucked it into her backpack. She turned at the sound of a commotion, and was filled with jubilation from head to toe as she saw Elsie and Charlie thrown into the air on a tide of hands, cheers and celebration carrying them in little bumps over the crowd. Charlie tipped her head back and laughed, her streaked hair trailing through someone’s fingers, her hand clutched to Elsie’s. Missouri whooped and cheered for them too, sure she was witnessing a miracle as incredible as any other: the absence of hatred reigned here tonight. Nobody cared Elsie was a woman with brown skin and scars on her face. Nobody cared she’d kissed another woman on the mouth. Nobody cared? No, perhaps the acceptance would be short-lived. At present, nobody _minded_.

They were heroes to the people of this tiny town, and they were heroes to Missouri.

Teresa slipped her hand into Missouri’s, a wild smile on her face as she threw their joined hands up into the air in a fit of passion. “ _Yai-yai-yai-yai-yaaaai!_ ” Teresa added to the cheers, making Elsie laugh from where she hovered.

Missouri squeezed Teresa’s hand tighter, then cheered too until her voice cracked.

It took half an hour before the four of them could tear away from the group; this was a party like no other – people danced, needless of music when their hearts were still beating. It took Charlie pleading before Elsie retired, waving to new friends as she made her way away. Teresa hurried after her, and of course, Missouri excused herself from the townsfolk to follow.

“They want to know where Dean is,” Teresa said tiredly, dragging her feet as she trailed after her big sister, holding her hand. “I told Mr. Horace that our captor _and_ one of our rescuers were gods, but I don’t think he believed me. I think he wanted to hit me, actually.”

“That’s because you dented his fragile sensibilities,” Missouri explained. “Like me, he believes the Almighty God is a singular entity, and any talk of lesser gods is talk of blasphemy. But no doubt he would want to hit you even if you didn’t open your mouth. He was never a nice man to converse with.”

“He was never a nice _anything_ ,” Elsie muttered, which prompted a quiet chuckle from all of them.

“How about hot oatmeal before we all fall asleep?” Missouri suggested, leading the way ahead to her house. “I have a spare bed. It ain’t as comfy as I’m sure Charlie’s is, but—”

“Aye, I’ll take it,” Charlie interrupted. “I haven’t got it in me to walk another step.”

“Oatmeal it is, then.” Missouri fumbled in her bag for her house keys, only for Charlie to nudge her out of the way and use a key of her own.

Going from a dark street into a dark house seemed reassuring in some way; the handheld lanterns lit every corner of Missouri’s kitchen, and she sighed straight away, spying a heap of opened letters on the table, and an unwashed bowl she’d left in the sink. “I’ll do the washing up. Charlie, you get the fire going; Elsie, go and set up some fresh sheets on the beds. Teresa, fetch us some water that ain’t ice-cold, would you?”

“Done,” Teresa said, swiping the metal pail from beside the sink and marching out the door.

Missouri put everyone’s bags in a pile by the door, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.

The house was finally a bearable temperature, and the cosy aroma of late-night breakfast filled the stairwell. Missouri breathed in deep; she’d missed the smell of comfort.

Teresa was going to sleep in Missouri’s bed, and Missouri could take the floor; she was old, but her day had been less draining than the other women’s – they deserved mattresses. Missouri was on her way upstairs to get blankets so the floor might at least be somewhat comfortable.

She heard gentle voices from Dean and Sam’s old bedroom at the end of the corridor, and she walked towards the sound. She paused halfway there, picking out a few blankets from the linen cupboard. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when the rest of the world was so silent, one soft laugh was loud enough to fill a cathedral in her head.

“ _It’s silly,_ ” Charlie said. Missouri knew Charlie’s mannerisms well enough to imagine her tucking her long hair behind her ear, straight but for a slight wave around her ears. “ _I’m not a poet, it’s going to sound ridiculous. It doesn’t even rhyme._ ”

“ _It won’t sound ridiculous,_ ” Elsie assured her. There came the sound of a brush running through hair; Charlie’s hair was too fine to make that sound, and it was too slow for Elsie’s usual brisk scrape, so Missouri assumed Charlie was kneeling in the bed behind Elsie, having slowly untied her plait, now pulling the brush through her thick locks so tenderly that they would never get a chance to tangle.

“ _My mother thought my poems were childish,_ ” Charlie replied, immense sadness thickening her voice. “ _I don’t know what she would have thought about this. You and I._ ”

“ _I think she would have thought you were a very happy child,_ ” Elsie said, pulling a laugh from Charlie. “ _Please read it to me?_ ”

“ _It’s not written, it’s in my head. I made it up while I was in the cage._ ”

Elsie didn’t say anything, but the brush continued to pull through her hair.

Charlie sighed. “ _All right then. Don’t laugh._ ”

“ _I won’t!_ ”

Clearing her throat, Charlie began to recite in a voice so soft Missouri strained to hear, wanting dearly to know what was said, even though she had no right to listen. “ _Her face is clay, the first rise of humanity, a native to our earth; she wears a mask to hide her soul. Formed by thumbs—_ ” Elsie laughed, and Missouri heard the light slap of skin. “ _I said don’t laugh!_

“ _You wrote a poem about me and you said I’m formed by thumbs!_ ”

“ _At least my mother had the sense to pretend she was laughing in delight rather than because it was hilarious!_ ”

“ _This_ is _delight,_ ” Elsie retorted. “ _Ow, stop pulling._ ”

“ _Sorry. Um. Formed by thumbs— I’ve forgotten now! Oh, yes. Thumbs of beauty. Stop giggling! She holds care in her hands and she pines for life gone by, but she loves. And she loves and she loves and she’s very intense about it._ ”

“ _That’s not a poem._ ”

“ _You know what, I have no idea what I ever saw in you._ ”

Elsie was laughing now. The hairbrush hit the floorboards and the bed took the weight of both women; Missouri knew the creak of her own house and she could practically see through the walls by the sound alone. She smiled as she heard giggling, the bedframe hitting the wall, a muffled shriek.

Then came the sound of kissing. Missouri covered her mouth with a hand, holding back a squeak of pleased surprise. She turned away, and was halfway gone – but then she heard another word, harsh enough that it caught her attention again.

“ _I don’t want you to think I hate you,_ ” Elsie said. “ _It weighed on me all the time I was away, all the time we were up there, in that place. There is nothing about you I hate._ ”

“ _Wh—Why do you think I think you hate me?_ ”

“ _Not you. Your skin. White skin._ ”

“ _...Oh._ ” Charlie’s mouth rounded on the word in a way that made it clear she now understood why Elsie was clarifying.

“ _I resented you when we first met. You came to America the same year I was abducted from my tribe. We had the same kind of education, we were raised in similar towns. But you? Your white skin and red hair made you a queen amongst even your own people. My scars made me nothing but an eyesore. On top of everything else._ ”

Charlie stayed quiet, breaths slow.

“ _I hated that I fell in love with you, Charlie. I thought I was as sick in the head as I’d been told I was. Not only are you a woman too, you’re a hundred times more beautiful than me, and as pale as snow. Me loving you would only pull you into the mud._ ”

“ _No—_ No _, Elsie, you can’t let yourself think that—_ ”

“ _I don’t! Not any more. You made me your friend. It took that friendship for me to realise not every white-skinned person is the devil. You’re not all cruel. It’s your society that’s cruel._ ”

“ _I know you like my music, though,_ ” Charlie added, light-heartedly.

Elsie gave a gentle laugh. “ _I do love some of your culture. I love the things you love._ ”

“ _Everything you ever told me about your tribe sounds amazing._ ”

“ _That’s because it is._ ”

Charlie chuckled. “ _I’m glad you stopped fighting it, Elsie. Fighting my Scottish heritage, fighting me tooth and nail when I wanted to learn about yours. You were just so darn worried if you let Shakespearean theatre into your life, you’d be encouraging what the missionaries started years ago, weren’t you?_ ”

“ _You’re not wrong._ ”

“ _I’m never wrong._ ”

“ _You are!_ ” Elsie laughed, hitting Charlie with a pillow. “ _But you’re not this time. I want to do it. I want to let you in. Everything about you. Even those – what were they—? Bag... pipes. And the dresses your men wear, they look interesting._ ”

“ _Kilts._ ”

“ _Yes, those._ ” Elsie kissed Charlie gently, slowly, lingering before lifting away with a sigh. “ _And when I escape from here, Charlie, you’re coming with me. I’ll take you and Teresa to see our tribe._ ”

“ _You’d do that for me?_ ”

“ _Not for you. For us._ ”

Charlie sighed on a smile. “ _Thank you. That... Oh, that means a_ hell _of a lot to me._ ” One more kiss, then a whisper. “ _I love you._ ”

“ _I love you too._ ”

Missouri shut her eyes and beamed, pleased beyond belief. She took a deep breath, then made her way towards the bedroom, so she could wish Elsie and Charlie a very good night – and even better years to come.


	16. The Three Bears

Sam walked straight into Castiel’s hut, unable to help the massive grin on his face. Dean looked up from where he was chopping sage into minuscule segments, and he raised an eyebrow at Sam’s outwardly high spirits.

In silence, Sam took the bucket of fresh water over to the fire. Castiel thanked him, and with cloth wrapped around his hands for protection, he slopped a portion of the liquid into the cauldron hanging over the flames. Steam whooshed up out of the hearth, and brought with it the smell of lentils.

When Sam had a decent hold on his excitement, he turned around to Dean, who was looking at him expectantly. Sam took a breath to explain. “ _Dragon footprints,_ ” he whispered.

Dean grinned down at the wooden table in front of him, which was littered with vegetables. “You should’ve seen the view, Sammy. You’d never’ve believed it.”

“Oh, I’d believe anything, after today,” Sam said, running a hand through his hair and going to flop into the couch. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the collection of animal skeletons and live plants twirl from the rafters.

Sam listened for a while to the calming sound of Dean and Castiel preparing food; Castiel tap-tap-tapped his ladle against the cauldron, while Dean cut herbs with rhythmic precision. Dean hummed a dialogue, narrating his actions wordlessly. Half an onion (finely chopped) got a “Mm-hm-hm,” while a quick check on the amount of butter in its pot got a “Hm!”, and when he passed a large green squash to Castiel, he hummed a cheerful five-note tune, which Sam could only interpret as a song of triumph.

He wondered how many times Dean and Castiel had cooked together; they moved about the tiled space in easy turns. Sam and Dean had fought battles like that, years ago. Back-to-back, totally co-ordinated.

“Where’s the meat?” Sam asked after a fashion.

Dean looked up from the chopping table and stared at Sam, and Castiel popped out from behind him, his ladle held upright, steaming.

“No meat,” Castiel said, blowing on the contents of the ladle as he held a cupped hand beneath it. “I don’t eat animals.”

Dean swallowed, and Sam was surprised to see a smile on his lips, even while his eyes turned down.

“So... where did the skeletons come from?” Sam asked.

“Found them dead,” Castiel answered. “I cleaned them, then reassembled them. I’ve learned a lot about animal structure that way. Although... it taught me very little about cervitaurs. Dean was the one to teach me that. Two ribcages. Two pelvic bones, two sets of shoulder blades. An evolutionary impossibility, certainly a scientific impracticality.”

“Um?” Sam said. “How did Dean teach you about... cervitaurs?”

Dean looked up, hands stilling. “Shit, you never got my letters. _Cas_ was the deer I was sent to kill. But I got turned into a deer too, by the forest, and Cas helped me out. I was stuck here as a half-animal for nearly a week.”

Sam gaped. “Seriously? Wow. So that’s what your trouble was. Charlie said you got sick, but she never said what with. Mostly she gave the impression you’d spent that whole time lying around, smoking and indulging in every hedonistic pleasure the backwoods could offer.”

Dean seemed to blush, frowning. He didn’t look up, and he didn’t answer.

Castiel broke the silence, wandering into Sam’s view while sucking food off his thumb. “I don’t let Dean smoke.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. He was evidently under some kind of spell, a witchery of the strangest breed. Keeping his tone both amused and accusing, Sam asked Dean, “And you don’t have a problem with that?”

Dean shook his head. “Those crappy cigarettes make me cough anyway. And I know what you’re thinking, but it’s a good thing Cas never tried to feed me meat,” he said with a smirk. “The thought of a carnivorous deer creeps me the hell out.”

“But you can’t go two days without protein,” Sam reminded him. “Now you’re human again, you’re getting meat in your diet somehow, right?”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. Lentils do me just fine.”

Sam began to smile and frown at once; that was a very strange thing to hear from Dean. “But you’re a carnivore. You always have been.”

“Not since meeting Cas I’m not,” Dean said, shrugging a shoulder. “And being a deer for a while kind of sullies the entire idea of being a meat-eater. No way in hell _I_ wanted to be eaten, I don’t think the woodland critters feel much different.”

Castiel sipped at the ladle, giving Dean a fond look as he did. Lapping at his lips, he then lifted the ladle to Dean’s face. “Try this?”

Dean sipped at the ladle too, then smacked his tongue against his palate. “Needs salt.”

Castiel nodded, turning back to the cauldron.

Sam grinned. “ _Never again may blood of bird or beast – stain with its venomous stream a human feast._ ”

Dean looked up. “What’s that?”

“A quote, from a book about vegetarianism.”

“I like it,” came Castiel’s voice from beside the fire. “ _Never again may blood of bird, or beast..._ ”

Sam finished, “ _Stain with its venomous stream a human feast._ Yeah.”

Dean chuckled. “You always did have a mind like a see-saw. You can remember random quotes about vegetables but you can’t remember to contact me before jumping head-first into a case I’m already working on.”

“You weren’t doing anything, you were sitting in a warm and cosy hut, making food,” Sam argued. “And besides, I _did_ think about what I was doing, I just thought the need to go after the missing people was more pressing than going after you.”

Dean’s nostrils flared, but his mouth slid closed without a word. Sam felt smug.

“Just be grateful you’re both still alive,” Castiel said warningly, lifting the cauldron off the heat and carrying it to the table. Dean brushed a space clear of plant cuttings, and Castiel set the pot down. “We’ve all had a very exciting day, but be glad it turned out well. Things don’t always.”

“I’ve had a fair share of days like that,” Dean muttered.

“Come and sit at the table, Sam,” Castiel said. “And wash your hands.”

Sam chuckled, sliding off the couch and going to the jug of water Castiel kept beside the wooden bath for hand-washing. “Your tableside manner kinda reminds me of Missouri’s,” Sam said, and smiled at the plant pot in front of him when he heard Dean laughing.

They sat around the dining table, Dean and Sam on the chairs while Castiel perched on an extra stool. Dean handed out the bowls (two wooden, one glass), and Castiel served the soup. The stuffed squash was still cooking.

“This is seriously just a starter?” Sam said in wonder, taking the wooden spoon Dean handed him. “I haven’t seen this much food all at once since I lived with Missouri.”

Dean smirked. “Cas keeps his guests fed, that’s all I can say.” He slurped his soup, then he groaned and his eyes fell shut.

Sam tried the soup, then made almost the same noise. “Holy crap, Cas, this is amazing.”

Castiel met Sam’s eyes and smiled widely. “Thank you, Sam.”

They ate in silence for a bit, guzzling the food down to fill their empty stomachs. When Sam was at the point he had to tip his bowl to get the lentils onto the spoon, he glanced up and asked, “So, are either of you planning on coming back to town? I think the community could use some extra support, now everyone’s home safe.”

Dean licked his lips clean, eyes darting to Castiel before settling back on Sam. “It’s not like there’s a lot we can do. Cas is—” Dean swallowed, looking down into his bowl.

“I’m powerless,” Castiel finished, pushing his bowl away. “Human. And I’m probably not a very proficient human, at that.”

Sam chewed absently on a lentil, letting it crumble. He pretended to keep chewing so he had something to do with his face other than let his sympathy show.

Dean sniffed and looked up, leaning his spoon on the edge of his empty bowl. “I’ve, uh – kinda got my work cut out for me here, I think.” He looked over, and Castiel held his eye as Dean went on, “Maybe settle here for a few days?”

The skin around Castiel’s eyes crinkled gladly, and he nodded. “You are more than welcome to stay, Dean.”

Dean exhaled on a smile, face turning downwards. “Good. That’s good, because I was gonna stay anyway. Pay you back for all your nurturing and whatever else. You’re the one who’s got recovering to do now. Human stuff ain’t as flashy as you’re used to. At the very least, you gotta move your garden closer to the house; you can’t fly up to the mountains every time you want sugar peas.”

“You don’t owe me, Dean.”

“No, no. But I wanna... y’know.” Dean shrugged, swaying his shoulders closer and bumping himself against Castiel. “Be... here.” Dean rolled his lower lip under his tongue, a sweet smile on his lips. His next words came out as a breathy whisper, and Sam didn’t think he was supposed to hear them at all. “With you.”

Sam swallowed his mouthful of nothing, blinking quickly. He went on watching Dean and Castiel, noticing the way they stared, their gazes drifting from mouths to eyes and back again.

Strange.

Sam thought of what Missouri had said to him earlier. _Just love_.

But it wasn’t the same with Dean, he wasn’t like _that_... He couldn’t be. Sam would have known, surely. And what about all Dean’s interest in girls, was that irrelevant now?

Suffice to say, Sam didn’t understand.

He took a breath, meaning to interrupt. “Look, I think I’m going to go back to town tomorrow, to send a letter to Jess, and the university. Let them know I won’t be returning to school for a while.”

Dean looked at him in interest. “How long?”

Sam’s eyes went to Castiel, wanting to know if it would be okay if he stayed. “Until the bruises heal,” Sam said, with a grin and a shrug. “I don’t know.”

Dean’s fingers went to his sleeve, and he lifted the cotton to show the skeleton bird’s handprint under the silver bracelet he wore. “This one might take some time,” he said. “Cas has been knocked a bit harder, though,” he added, sending Castiel a gentle look. “Not all on the outside.”

“I’ll make a bed up for you, Sam,” Castiel said briskly, standing to clear the bowls away. “I think I can spare a few couch cushions.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, knocking his thumbs together over the table. Either Castiel didn’t want to talk about what he’d given up, or he didn’t want Sam watching him gush over Dean. Sam wasn’t complaining; both ideas seemed difficult to swallow.

The stuffed squash would take another half-hour to cook, so Sam spent that time perusing Castiel’s book collection.

“Every single one of these is fascinating,” Sam said, glancing up from an ancient tome about crop rotation. “I’m surprised you think you wouldn’t make a good human, Cas. Your mind’s probably bursting with knowledge after having read all of these. And not just technical knowledge either – this bookshelf is practically a how-to guide for sustainable living. You’ve put it to good use, obviously, living here.”

“Hm,” Castiel said tonelessly, poking at the fire with a pair of iron tongs. “I like books a lot.”

“He likes astronomy,” Dean said happily, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a blanket around him. “Stars and stuff. Did you know there was a constellation named after a hunter?”

Sam huffed a laugh and nodded. “Orion, yeah.”

Dean pulled a face, stuck out his tongue, then went back to his embroidery, sweeping out a dangling thread so it wasn’t in the way.

They got together at the table again when the squash was done, and Dean laid out three sets of wooden plates and cutlery.

“Cas made all these tools himself,” Dean said. “Damn-near perfect. Chopped the trees as well, I’m guessing.”

“No,” Castiel said, scraping a serving of squash onto Sam’s plate. “I only use trees that have already fallen. I don’t do anything that would harm the forest if I can help it.”

Sam paused before setting the first mouthful on his tongue. “The forest is safe now, isn’t it?” he asked. “No more abductions?”

Castiel nodded, tucking into his food. “Should be.” He chewed and swallowed, then looked up at Sam. “The gods now have something worth far more to them than humans.”

“And what about you?” Sam asked.

Castiel seemed to know what Sam meant; he hummed in thought and looked at Dean, even though Dean wasn’t looking back, gobbling up his food instead. “Me,” Castiel said, “I value innocent life more than power. Humans...” He smiled oddly, still watching Dean eat. “My curiosity about you will never end.”

Then he looked away, and his fork sank down to his plate. “Although my life will now end someday, so I suppose my curiosity has a limit.”

Sam swallowed his food, not knowing what response to give.

“So, I have a question,” Dean said fifteen minutes later, stuffing leftover apple strudel into his mouth. “‘S for you, Cas.”

“Mm?” Castiel said from the seat beside him, also with his mouth full.

Dean swallowed. “If Gabriel’s old name was Trickster, and yours was Thunder, who picked out the name ‘Castiel’?”

“I did,” Castiel said with a smile. “It was something I saw— Here!” He got up from his stool and went to the bookshelf, running his finger along the middle level. He gave a quiet “Aha!” then returned to the table with a red-bound book in his hands. He smoothed his hand over its cover and pushed his dessert out of the way, moving the table’s candle nearer so he could see. He opened the book at a marked page, and Sam leaned closer.

Castiel pointed a finger at a handwritten word. “Kh... ah, ss. Tee. Eeeee. El.”

Sam glanced at Castiel’s proud expression, then to the book. He reached forward and pulled the book to him, reading the word. “No, it says ‘Cassiel’. There’s no T here.”

He looked up, and saw both Dean and Castiel’s expressions. Castiel looked surprised, and uneasy, but Dean looked like someone had punched him.

Sam frowned at his brother. “Dean, what’s...?”

“You can’t read,” Dean said softly.

Castiel looked away with a silent breath.

“You can’t... _read_ ,” Dean said again, opening his hands palm-up on the table, as if presenting his astonishment to himself. “How do you— Why—” Dean blinked a few times, then licked his lips and put his hand against his forehead, staring dully at the tabletop.

Sam looked at Castiel, who had turned his gaze to the other side of the room, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, reaching to touch Castiel’s wrist with his fingers. “‘Castiel’ is nicer. More original.”

“It’s not that,” Castiel said, and his voice was thick as tar. “No, it’s not that.”

Sam didn’t know what it _was_ , but he was aware there was a situation building here that he might need to defuse somehow. “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Castiel pressed a firm line between his lips and stood up, floating away without a word. He went pick the cushions off the couch, and he lay some of them down on the floorboards, then went to fetch the mattress which had been propped up on the far wall so they had access to the fire earlier.

Sam figured he wasn’t getting any more out of Castiel, so he looked over at Dean. Dean was already staring back, his hand still pressed to his head.

“What’s the problem?” Sam asked, glancing at the book, then back at Dean.

“He made me read out all the letters I wrote you,” Dean said quietly, so Castiel wouldn’t hear. “And his favourite book is the one that doesn’t require words to understand. And he collects pictures out of newspapers. I just—” Dean looked across the room; Sam heard the thump as the mattress found its place, then the scrape as Castiel moved the table on which Dean had been chopping vegetables back into the shadows. The skin of Dean’s throat tucked up to his jaw, and he looked at his own hands, touching the corner of the book. “I guess I’m mad I didn’t notice before. It’s so obvious.”

“I think you need to talk to him, tell him that’s why you’re all—” Sam gestured to Dean, “dark and brooding. Otherwise he’ll think you’re mad _because_ he can’t read.”

“I _can_ read,” Castiel said testily, sitting back down at the table and grabbing his half-empty bowl of apple strudel, shoving another bite into his mouth, ignoring when it dribbled past his lips. “Jus’ not as w’ll as you.”

Sam nodded. “You’ve survived without the skill, it’s not a requirement.”

“Dead handy though,” Dean said, and Sam was pleased to see him give Castiel a shy smile. “I could— Um. I could teach you, or somethin’. If you wanted.” He was twiddling his spoon back and forth on its tip inside his bowl, watching it dance. “Not right now. But while I’m here.”

Castiel sighed, wiping his chin on his sleeve. He didn’t look at Dean when he said, “Okay.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, though?” Dean asked, but his pleading expression was missed by Castiel’s lowered eyes. “I handed you my copy of—” Dean glanced at Sam then back, “that book, my favourite? And you looked through it and you didn’t say _shit_.”

Castiel threw his spoon into his bowl and stood up again, walking away to the far side of the room to pace. Sam recognised the physical language of a man feeling attacked, and he stood up to follow him. He glanced back, holding up a hand to push Dean back into his seat. “Let me,” he said gently. Dean sat.

Sam approached Castiel with his head turned, trying to see past the hair which had fallen against his cheeks. He was trying to hide from Sam, but he looked up when Sam touched his elbow. Sam saw the tears in Castiel’s blue, fire-lit eyes, and he gave the other man a reassuring smile.

“You don’t have any reason to be ashamed,” Sam said steadily. “Your life on Earth has been nothing like other people’s. Dean told me that Jimmy was—”

“He had a lot of difficulty with things like books,” Castiel interrupted, standing still and putting a hand over his eyes. “Jimmy. He wanted to be part of the forest, he wanted to be free. When I came to him I gave him what he wanted, but for only a single day before he died. He could grow flowers when he touched his hands to the ground, he could make the birds sing when he whistled. And even when he was gone—” Castiel shook and shivered, then grabbed the cutting table and held onto it for balance. “When he passed away, I carried on in his stead. He wanted me to care for the forest, be part of it like he was.

“I love the forest,” Castiel said, looking at Sam with a severity that bled into his words. “But there were always other things I wanted.” He looked down now, perching against the table, shoulders bowed. “I want to learn to read. And study, and learn. I want to see the world; I know so little about it. I thought I was going to have all of eternity to learn, Sam. I thought I was going to live forever. So I never moved on, thinking it was all in good time.”

Sam reached to hold his elbow, trying to comfort him, not knowing if it would help.

“But then,” Castiel said, “came Trickster. _Gabriel_.” He said the name with wholehearted distaste. “He ruined everything. He made my life into some— Some predetermined destiny. He made Dean come to me, he made my presence a burden – a _danger_ to the forest. How is it even possible? I understand the workings of the gods’ minds, but even I don’t know how Gabriel could set events in motion so intricately that I was made to do what he wanted. How was he to know that Dean would become a deer, that I would then—” Castiel’s eyes shifted up to Sam’s, holding his gaze for a second before looking back down. “How was he to know I would befriend Dean the way I did? That Dean’s bracelet would burn me? How could he have known _any_ of that?”

Dean stepped forward, hands fidgeting at his sides. “You wanna know how I think he did it?”

Castiel looked at him; Sam realised he had known Dean was listening and hadn’t cared.

Dean took a breath. “Gabriel’s sprouting some grade-A bullshit, that’s what I think. Yeah, okay, it’s probably possible for him to have arranged everything just so, but I’m taking the more obvious explanation. He picked that symbol to fuck with us. Hell knows. Maybe he saw the future and found out what was on my bracelet. He told you he made our paths cross so we collided, right? I got no clue if I believe in fate, not the way he talked about it – but the way I see it, you and I were meant to meet anyway. There’s a goddamn _space_ in me,” he pointed at his stomach, “right there. You fill it just right. Nobody else in the whole wide world could do that for me.”

Sam smirked, and when Dean caught his eye, Sam muttered, “You like food way too much.”

Dean sneered, then returned his attention to Castiel, who sighed heavily. “I mean it, Cas. Gabriel’s word doesn’t mean a whole lot to me. If he weren’t your brother I’d be looking for a way to kill him, not gonna lie. He’s exactly the sort of thing me and Sam used to hunt when we hunted together.”

Castiel’s lips had parted. “Gabriel is a sibling, not a brother.”

Dean blinked. “What’s the difference?”

Castiel shrugged a shoulder. “We don’t really have... genders.”

“You’re – what’s the word? Neuter?”

Castiel nodded.

Dean pressed his lips together and nodded. “Nice.”

Sam let his hand drop from Castiel’s elbow, and the movement made Castiel look at him. Sam gave a small smile and said, “I noticed you haven’t complained about the idea of us killing Gabriel.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows coolly. “A universe without him would be a universe that much saner.”

“Universe,” Dean said quietly. When Sam and Castiel looked at him, he scratched at his temple with a finger. “I’m still baffled by that. I mean, I knew there were other planets out there, but finding out there’s life on those planets? It’s incredible. The universe has gotta be millions of times bigger than the human race ever imagined.”

Sam too felt a sense of wonder, one so extensive that he felt a sigh escape him and a thrill spin like a whirlwind through his insides.

“Anyway,” Castiel murmured, after Sam had spent a good minute wondering what people from other planets looked like. Like humans, or skeletal birds, if what he saw on the Meridian was any indication.

Castiel slid away from the table, tucking his hair behind his ears. “We should... go to sleep. Have a rest. We’re probably far more tired than we think.”

Dean went up behind Castiel, reaching to touch his wrist. “Hey,” he said gently, tugging him around so they faced each other. Dean wore a wonky smile, but it lit up his eyes, and the firelight made the sight of them together look bizarrely romantic.

Dean bit his lip and looked down, then lifted his eyes once again, and he leaned in to put a kiss on Castiel’s cheek. Sam raised his eyebrows, but Castiel smiled, dipping his chin and giving a soft, low chuckle.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel said with great tenderness, stroking his fingers along Dean’s jaw. “You take the mattress, I’ll take the floor.”

Sam supposed that meant he had the couch, but didn’t say anything, because he was watching Dean watch Castiel wander away. He had a magical look in his eye, and Sam would bet anything he felt the same overwhelming, sparkling pressure in his heart and soul that Sam felt when he looked at Jessica.

Sam breezed past Dean, following Castiel’s lead. As he passed, he heard the sound of Dean’s lovestruck sigh. Oddly, Sam found himself smiling.

There was no denying it, and no mistaking it. It was just... love.

“AAAAAAAAAUHH!”

Sam was startled awake by the scream. It was dark, so dark in here. He could smell the fire, and he turned his head left to see its glowing embers in the hearth. A red-hot log shifted, spraying up a spiral of sparks.

He heard the scratch of a match and heavy breath, and when he looked towards the foot of the couch, he saw Dean hurrying towards the back corner of the room.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, sheltering the matchlight with his hand. The flame was blocked by his figure, and when it was visible again, Sam saw he had lit a candle.

Sam said with a sleep-broken voice, “What happened?”

Dean sat Castiel up in his bed, heaving him with one strong hand until he was propped upright. Castiel was shaking, breathing irregularly. His bed was covered in lumpy cushions instead of his mattress, and his bare feet rested on the bed slats, as there weren’t enough cushions to cover the whole bed. At some point in the night he must have moved himself off the floor.

Dean sat down behind Castiel’s back, one leg crooked behind him, one foot trailing on the floor. He put the candle down on the table beside the bed, and he wrapped his arms around Castiel from behind. Castiel moaned in distress, eyes closing as he leaned back.

“Nightmare?” Sam asked.

Dean caught his eye and nodded. “Cas didn’t used to sleep before, he’d just lie down for a while. Now he’s... he’s got to fall asleep.”

“There’s another dimension,” Castiel whispered, eyes opening and flicking from one part of the high ceiling to another. “In my mind, when I sleep. There’s another—” he gasped, “another world.”

“It’s a dream,” Dean said, pressing his cheek to Castiel’s head. He shut his eyes and whispered, “It’s just a dream. It’s not real.”

“What did you dream?” Sam asked, with curiosity that went beyond simply wanting to know the answer; he had a feeling it was important. Missouri always said dreams were meaningful.

Castiel took a few more shaking breaths, both hands grappling with Dean’s so he could hold onto him. “I don’t— It wasn’t...” He whined and covered his face with his palms, shaking his head. “I can’t remember.”

“I dreamed about a bear,” Sam said, looking into the fire on his left, imagining a miniature version of the beast’s hulking shape forming in the sparks. “A silver bear in a forest, crying because the forest had misplaced his shadow and he couldn’t find it.” He reached up and touched his nose. “A shadow from his nose. The bear screamed... It was grieving.” Sam turned and looked over at Dean and Castiel’s candle-lit faces, their wide-eyed expressions. “Then I woke up, and the scream was real.”

Dean parted his lips. “I dreamed about an elephant shrew. Silver fur, blue eyes. It drank a shadow in a bowl of forest groundwater and choked. It was just about to die when I woke up.”

Castiel shivered and sat up by himself, arms looped around his knees. “I almost... I remember seeing myself. Feeling like myself, maybe. Walking – no... crawling in the forest. I looked like Jimmy. And—” He breathed hard, then relaxed when Dean rubbed his naked back. “I felt dead. Dying. Not just mortal, but doomed.”

Castiel turned his eyes to Dean over his shoulder, and Dean looked at him closely. Then Dean looked across at Sam again, and they shared a tense expression of concern. Sam was now certain something supernatural was happening here, and all three of them were in accord. People didn’t have such similar dreams without reason. 

“This is Gabriel’s fault,” Castiel said. “The magic in this forest should never have been touched. I should never have let myself be exiled here, I should never have interfered. I should’ve let Jimmy die and let the forest live on its own. Now my power’s gone, the forest is mourning. It was relying on me. Its spirits will start to die; their lives are as curtailed as my own.”

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head and grasping Castiel tight on either bicep, rubbing with his thumbs. “Cas, no.” He sighed slowly, bending his head forward and resting his temple against Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s done now. You’re human like the rest of us. You made your choice, and it was a good one at the time.”

Castiel sniffled, quickly covering his eyes with his hand. Sam felt a sinking feeling, seeing Castiel cry. Something about him reminded Sam of the silver bear, and he’d felt the animal’s grief so intently that he now felt Castiel’s, too.

“Sam,” Dean said gently from where he sat. “Go into my bag, get me the book from there.”

“No,” Castiel said. “It’s not there, it’s in my shelf. I didn’t want the paper getting ruined by all the dirt in your bag.”

Dean chuckled, rubbing his hand up and down Castiel’s bicep.

Sam slipped out of bed and padded along to the bookshelf. “What’s it called?” he asked.

“ _Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine_ ,” Dean said. “The issue was _The Picture of Dorian Gray_.”

Sam turned around, surprised. “Wasn’t that banned? The publishers recalled all copies? It was in the newspaper. There was public outrage in Britain over the story’s indecency, or something.”

Dean licked his lips and let his eyes travel Castiel’s shoulders. “Yeah.”

Sam pulled a face, made uncomfortable by Dean’s... whatever it was. But he turned and looked for the magazine anyway. He found it tucked between a book about flowers and a book about practical witchcraft. Pulling it out, he took it across the room and handed it to Dean, who flipped it around and opened it in front of Castiel, arms surrounding his torso, cheek resting on his shoulder.

“This ain’t a nice story,” Dean said gently into Castiel’s ear. “You won’t like it.”

“Why do you like it?” Castiel asked, as Dean thumbed past the introductory pages and spread the magazine open on the first page of the story.

Sam went back to bed but stayed sitting up, arms around his knees, listening and watching.

“Because of Basil,” Dean said. “He’s a character in it. You’ll like him too, I think he’s a lot like me in personality. But he dies. The man he falls in love with kills him.”

Castiel’s gasped and he sat up; the magazine slipped from Dean’s hands and slid away down the blanket. Castiel turned at the waist to look at Dean, almost upset, almost accusing. “That’s horrible.”

Dean smiled, giving a shrug. “It’s written well. Sometimes I imagine different versions of the same story, ones where the characters meet differently. Ways they end up together, versions where Dorian isn’t such an asshole.”

“If you would rather the story was different, why do you love it so much?”

Dean gazed at Castiel, fingers rising to stroke his hair back from his temples. “So many reasons. The bare bones of the story – the core, the raw material, whatever you want to call it – that drew me in, and everything I didn’t like about it was just surface dust. Mostly I love it because I never found another story where men find other men beautiful. I’ll bet anything there’s more out there, though. The bit about Basil and Dorian is just an underlying theme, it’s there if you want to see it, and probably not that noticeable if you don’t. But Dorian likes women; _I_ like women. Me liking women doesn’t stop me from loving men, though.”

Sam awkwardly scratched at his neck, eyes wandering away. He was really, really glad he was the only one witnessing this. Given that normal people banned a book because of subtle hints to this kind of attraction, he couldn’t imagine what those same people would do to Dean if they knew what he was exhibiting now. And Sam couldn’t ignore the squeamish feeling in his gut, wishing he was somewhere else. Seeing Dean acting flirtatious with women was fine enough, but when his love interest presented himself as a man... well, it would certainly take some getting used to.

When Sam glanced back over to Dean and Cas, he saw them lying together, Cas in Dean’s arms, Dean holding the magazine against his bent knees. The blanket was draped around their waists, and Castiel leaned into Dean, eyes falling closed as Dean started to read aloud.

He read slowly, perfecting every word as it rolled off his tongue. He described Lord Henry’s garden with lavish enthusiasm in his voice, and Sam listened, walking through the same garden with the characters.

Dean hadn’t read to Sam since they were both children; it was pleasant to remember how it felt to be lulled back to sleep by his voice. Castiel was a lucky man to have that care now. Sam watched them, and as the minutes went by, he started to feel glad that Dean had someone, someone who was good for him regardless of their sex.

It didn’t take long before Castiel fell asleep, and when he did, Dean set the magazine aside, then leaned back against the bed’s headboard and shut his eyes.

Sam got out of bed and went to blow the candle out for him. He lifted the holder, but before he could make the extinguishing puff, Dean cracked open an eye. Sam gave him a smile.

“Does this bother you?” Dean asked, voice husky with fatigue. He didn’t need to explain what he meant; Sam knew.

“Yeah,” Sam said. He couldn’t lie, not to his brother. “Mostly because I don’t get it.”

Dean blinked in acknowledgment. “Thanks for—” He cut himself off, and again, Sam didn’t need to hear words to know what he meant.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “So long as you’re happy.”

Dean’s mouth pulled into a tired smile, and with his eyes closed, he rolled his chin against Castiel’s hair, pressing his mouth and nose to him. His lips pursed into a kiss, letting out a slow breath.

“‘Night, Dean,” Sam whispered. “Sleep well.” He blew out the candle, then set it beside the bed and returned to the couch, burying himself under the still-warm blankets.

He stared at the embers of the fire as he settled down to go to sleep, and he watched the bear walking through the sparks again. Another bear came along, and walked beside it. Then came a third. Sam smiled, and his eyes drooped closed; he was already dreaming.


	17. Easy as A B C

Dean found it wasn’t easy to think of ways in which he might kill Gabriel when his mind was instead occupied with thoughts of cranberry pie. Sam promised he would get cream while he was in town, so Dean went right ahead and added _all_ the cranberries, in the hope that their bitterness would be smoothed over by fresh, thick dairy.

“Do you really need that much sugar?” Castiel said, words clad in an armour of disdain. “If I’d known you had a sweet tooth I would have asked Sam to get more sugar before he left.” He sighed and picked up the glazed pot Dean had just emptied. “The sight of this sets my teeth on edge.”

“Trust me,” Dean said, sucking sauce off his thumb. “This is gonna taste like Heaven on Earth.”

Castiel eyed Dean dubiously. “I doubt you know what that tastes like.”

Dean smirked at him. “Get outta my way, would you? It’s time to bake this baby!”

“It’s not a baby, it’s a pie,” Castiel said, stepping back as Dean crouched with the pie dish in his hands. Dean slid the pie into the little clay oven, which Dean had been heating up in the fire for hours beforehand.

“How is it,” Dean began, as he straightened up and brushed his hands together, “that you know the words ‘curtailed’ and ‘unassailable’ and ‘multifarious’, but you don’t know that when I call a pie a baby, I’m not literally calling it a baby? And, for that matter, how do you even know all those words?” Dean turned curious eyes towards Castiel.

Castiel appeared radiant, with his crumpled white linen shirt rolled to the elbows, glowing around the edges: his back was to the arched window, through which streamed the yellow-white sunlight of early afternoon. His eyes were as blue as blue could be, looking back at Dean.

“I told you before,” Castiel said. “I like to go into town sometimes, so I can observe people. I picked up a lot there. You have such beautiful languages. English is so sharp – it’s a gross conglomeration of other languages, but Jimmy spoke it, which makes it dear to me.” Castiel rolled a shoulder, crossing one arm across his middle, holding his elbow under his hand. “I prefer the natives’ languages. Teton Sioux in particular. For years I’ve perched at the classroom windows to hear the lessons Elsie gives in secret. It was only yesterday I realised why she never spoke Teton Sioux outside that room.”

“You knew Elsie before this mess?”

Castiel shook his head, looking down. “Only her voice. Many of the townspeople, I’m sure I would recognise them by voice. Some by face. Jimmy remembers them.”

Dean smiled. “You, uh... You ever come listen to me when I was a kid? Reading to Sam before bed?”

Castiel gave a sad shake of his head, eyes rising to meet Dean’s. “I wish I had.”

Dean pushed out his lips, trying to hide that Cas made him _smile_. “I can read to you now, if you want.”

However improbable it should have been, Castiel's eyes became brighter. “Please,” he said. He nodded.

Dean chuckled, gesturing casually towards the couch. “Whadd’ya want me to read?”

“This!” Castiel rushed past Dean and fetched his astronomy book from the shelf. He carried it two-handed over to Dean, who sat down on the couch and stretched his arms over the back. Dean took the book, and set it on his thigh as Castiel settled next to him, nearly breathless in his excitement.

Dean opened the first page of the book. “ _Wonders of the Night Sky_ , it’s called.”

Before he could turn the page, Castiel pried the book from him and lifted it closer to himself. “Wuh,” he said. “Ohhn. Duh, err. Ss.”

Dean blinked. “Is that how you read everything? With the alphabet, letter by letter?”

“How else would I do it? I know the alphabet – most of it, anyway. Isn’t that what written words are? The alphabet arranged in specific orders?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean nodded. “But you somehow got a T out of a double S when you were naming yourself, so I’m thinking it might be better if we could – I dunno, establish what you already know.”

Castiel left the book in Dean’s hands and went to his shelves of bottles. He crouched, thrusting out his beautiful backside. Dean turned his head to admire his rear properly, for once not feeling shamed by his curiosity, or afraid someone might notice. Castiel rummaged through drawer after drawer, leaving a scrambled mess of things behind as he searched for something.

“Here, found it,” Castiel said. He stood up with a set of loose papers in one hand, turning to Dean. Dean smiled like he hadn’t been admiring the strain in the seam of Castiel’s trousers, but he was fairly certain Cas knew. Castiel came closer, then sat down, pushing against Dean’s side with his legs up on the couch, paper settled between them. The paper was marked with clumsy lettering in black ink – and Dean’s missing pen was on top of the stack beside his ink pot.

“Hey!” Dean said in annoyance. “I thought I lost that!” He glared at Castiel, but the glare dissolved as he saw Castiel’s sweet yet guilty expression. Dean let out a breath. “Did you... pinch my pen so you could write?”

Castiel lifted up the pen and ran his fingertips over the paper. “Yes. I didn’t like Jimmy’s one.”

Dean observed Castiel’s handwriting. It was as unpracticed as a child’s, lopsided and irregular, embellished with the occasional blotch of ink. Nearly every character included serifs; it was clearly copied from a printed book.

Dean squinted, and realised the letters were meant to form words. “ _Today_ ,” he read. “ _Today I—_ Is that ‘I’?”

“I, as in myself,” Castiel said.

“That’s written with a single letter,” Dean said. “You’ve spelled it _E-Y_.”

“Which one is _I_?”

Dean licked his lips, then felt a stroke of inspiration hit him. “Let me show you,” he said, shuffling through five, ten pages of Castiel’s attempts at educating himself. Dean found a blank page at the back, and he brought it to the front. He opened up the lid of his inkwell and set the pot his knee, dipped the pen in the ink, tapped it against the inside rim, then began to write the alphabet.

“Big ‘A’, little ‘a’,” Dean said. “That makes an _aaa_ sound, or an _ayy_ sound. Or _uh_ , or _ah_ , mouth open wide.”

“So many,” Castiel breathed, blinking fast. “I thought they were only one sound.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s gonna be complicated as hell for you.”

“If children can do it, I can do it,” Castiel said, reasonably.

“Big ‘B’, little ‘b’.”

“Buh,” Castiel said. His hand curled around Dean’s bicep, chin near his shoulder.

They went on, and Dean wrote out every one of the letters of the alphabet, detailing their upper- and lower-case forms. Dean went off on a tangent and described printing presses and the literal upper- and lower-cases, where the capital letters were kept in the upper case, and the smaller letters were kept in the lower case. He was pleased that actually helped Castiel understand the reason for there being two sets of each letter.

Castiel read out each letter, getting it wrong a few times, but Dean wouldn’t let him be deterred by mistakes. As it turned out, Castiel was naturally undeterred by mistakes – Dean suspected he would be an incredibly straightforward student. Not only that, but he was rewarding to teach. When he got through the whole alphabet, Castiel gave a sigh of relief, which was followed by a hug.

Dean cradled Castiel’s head and laughed against his neck, grinning and grimacing at once as Castiel hugged too tight in his excitement.

Castiel pulled away with his eyes ablaze, something inside him glowing in a very human way.

“Let’s write your name,” Dean said, giving Castiel a friendly nudge in his side. “C’mon. You put it together.”

Castiel struggled; he knew how his name was supposed to look, but he’d memorised the wrong letters years ago. Dean smiled dazedly as he watched Castiel writing out each letter like the pen weighed a ton, squinting so narrowly that his irises barely showed at all. Dean watched his hand move in that unpracticed way, summoning shapes to the page with painstaking precision.

“Read it out,” Dean said, when Castiel was done.

Castiel read the letters that Dean had named, rather than their sounds. “C... A, S. Teeee...?” Dean nodded. “ _I_. E. L.”

“Perfect,” Dean said, putting a kiss on Castiel’s soft-stubbled jaw.

“Now I want to write something else,” Castiel said, dipping the pen into the ink and tapping excess ink away quickly. The inkwell became unstable, so Dean snatched it off his knee before it could fall.

He sat patiently as Castiel began to write, but then Castiel huffed and covered his words with a shielding hand. Dean chuckled. “Not ready yet?”

“I’ll show you when I’m done,” Castiel said bluntly.

“All right,” Dean grinned, leading his eyes away from Castiel. He screwed the lid onto the inkwell and put it down on the floor beside the couch. Then he sat up, leaned back, and gazed out of the window, past the green leaves of the vine growing on the glass.

Blue skies dominated the shape of the window, and going by the gold filtering through tree branches in the middle-distance, it seemed reasonably warm outside.

A thought occurred to Dean: what if the weather around here was directly related to Castiel’s moods?

When Dean had arrived in Black Hills, everything had been overcast. Thoughtful and brooding, perhaps. Cas had been feeling the loss of the townsfolk nearly as much as the town had, so his moroseness had become a dismal shade over the forest and surrounding area.

Dean began to smile again, thinking of yesterday. Clear skies, perfect for flying. Aside from all the worry caused by their adventuring, Dean too had been feeling lighthearted. It was only to be expected, after experiencing all those previously undiscovered intimacies.

And then they’d come back to Earth, and it had rained around Black Hills Outpost while they’d been gone. The sky had opened of its own accord, without any influence from Cas at all.

Dean remained fixated by the bright sky outside, but he saw it very differently than he had a minute ago. Now it was proof that Castiel no longer had control over his surroundings. Nature was taking its course without him; the sky was tired of clouds and it wanted the sun to to shine upon the Earth. It should have been a good thing – less than two weeks ago Dean would have said it was downright brilliant that a supernatural creature had no say in what the planet did – but it didn’t feel like a good thing at all.

Since being in Black Hills for this case, Dean’s previously unquestionable knowledge about the supernatural had taken a few knocks. Maybe, like Castiel, any creature possessing magical powers was not a monster by default. There were kind-hearted monsters, just as there were deadly ones. Cas was one of the good guys. Cas was a deer in a forest of wolves – and even that comparison couldn’t hold up, because Dean supposed there might be friendly wolves out there. Evil couldn’t be determined simply by species.

How was Dean meant to know any more? Which things was he meant to kill? The divide between good and bad wasn’t black and white – maybe it never had been. What if Dean had killed the wrong creatures in the past? _Innocent_ creatures?

He made a decision: he would be twice as sure something was evil before he tried to kill it. It was the only way to make certain. Gabriel had murdered before, but it was clear he had the intention to make amends. He wasn’t free of Dean’s target yet, but Dean did feel a little less desire to remove him from existence. Dean himself was a murderer. It couldn’t be fair to pass judgement upon others; Gabriel’s view of morality was different from Dean’s own, and there would always be someone out there who thought Dean was despicable. Even Dean—

No, Dean thought. He refused to let himself go there.

He looked back at Castiel when he heard a shift of paper. Castiel glanced up, keeping the paper curled away from Dean so he couldn’t see.

“You done?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. Then he swallowed, then he unfurled the paper and slid it onto Dean’s thigh.

Dean curled his fingers around its side and lifted it, eyes skimming the page to find the new part. He found it, the freshest letters gleaming with still-wet ink.

_I w unt tu haw sek_

Dean frowned. He murmured the words, hoping they would make sense when read aloud. “I wuntu haws ek. I want to! I want to... hawks? Hawe sek. Have— Have sex?!”

Dean turned wide eyes on Castiel, surprised, and saw Castiel looking at him eagerly, nervously, a pink flush on his cheeks. He fiddled with Dean’s pen between his fingers.

Dean’s grin began on one side of his face, then inched over to match on the other side, and by that time, Castiel’s gaze had slipped from Dean’s eyes to his mouth, and Dean felt about five times hotter than he ought to be.

“Can we?” Castiel said, a tiny frown appearing between his dark eyebrows. His eyes were dusky when they flicked up to meet Dean’s. “Before Sam gets back. I keep...” He sucked on his lower lip, then let it go free. His words came out shaking as he breathed them, “I keep thinking about how it felt.”

“When we touched?” Dean replied, vaguely startled by the weighty smoothness that had appeared in his voice from nowhere.

Castiel nodded shyly, turning his face down and away, inadvertently giving Dean a better view of his blush. “I can’t show you my true from again—” he shut his eyes, “God only knows what it became since Gabriel took my power. But, I, um...” His eyes opened again, and a sliver of blue was visible as he turned his head and set his attention on Dean’s lips. “The human part of the experience was also something I enjoyed.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, barely able to hear through the sound of his blood roaring in his ears. “I mean – yeah, it was something I enjoyed too. A lot.” He remembered the sensation of body heat radiating against his own, already flame-hot skin invigorated by wool blankets, moving as he rubbed. The scent of male genitals, not his own. And blue eyes. Dean’s exhale fell from his mouth, flustered by the recollection.

“Do you want to, then?”

Dean grinned lopsidedly, nodding as he leaned closer to Castiel’s lips. His stomach was flipping, his fingers tingling, his penis definitely swelling. “Yeah,” he whispered, too needy, against Castiel’s lips.

Castiel pressed his nose to Dean’s cheek, and their lips almost met. Their breath trembled, small vocalisations riding into the space held between their mouths. Castiel repositioned his hips, facing Dean and getting closer, but still they didn’t kiss. Dean tried to surge into it, but Castiel maintained his distance, teasing Dean.

“Cas,” Dean keened under his breath, a shivering hand making its way to hold Castiel’s hip, feeling wrinkles in the linen. “Cas, I wanna...” Thirty seconds was all it had taken, he was weak for it. “Please—”

Castiel bit Dean’s lip, pushing Dean’s head back. Dean moaned, then laughed at the sound he’d made, then moaned again as he looked down and saw Castiel’s right thigh slotted between both his own; he had mounted his leg and locked them together. Castiel’s trousers hid nothing from Dean: he had the start of an erection. Castiel ground his hips down on Dean’s thigh, and Dean watched the shape of Castiel’s penis press to his leg, dragging cloth. Dean cooed, smiling at the sensation.

He looked up into Castiel’s eyes, seeking connection, and he saw Castiel had a soul full of lust and wanting. Dean felt another jolt as Castiel humped his hipbone – then was taken completely unaware as Castiel caught his jaw between firm fingers, tilting his chin upward. Dean parted his lips instinctively, and Castiel claimed them with a tense kiss, too hard and breathy to be called tender. Lips dragged and jaws stretched out, breaths rolled free with sounds of desire, but Dean got no more than pressure before Castiel lifted his mouth and hand away.

Wanting to reinitiate that contact, Dean slid his hands up and grasped Castiel’s shoulders from the back – but rather than go for a kiss like he’d meant to, he shivered and his head fell back, overwhelmed with pleasure at Castiel’s shoulders being so _wide_.

Castiel’s penis was fully hard against Dean’s now, beautifully thick, even though the cloth. The bump as Castiel pushed forward made Dean bark out, unable to breathe without vocalising.

“Cas,” Dean grunted, trying to spread his legs out. He was held back by Castiel’s bulk, however; Dean had known Castiel was a well-built man, but he seemed so big when he was this close. He was the same size as Dean, there was nothing petite or delicate or weak about him. Dean’s mind and body ran aflame with that awareness, and he found himself gasping up at the ceiling, head back on the birchwood frame of the couch. Castiel thrust heavily against him in arrhythmic, rough bumps, and Dean made a broken noise he hadn’t meant to make. Yet, he couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed. He peered up into Castiel’s eyes, and saw rapt fascination there. Cas didn’t care what noises he made, every reaction was artistry to him.

Dean’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He raised curled fingers to Castiel’s temple, and gave Cas a helpless smile as he stroked his hair away from his eyes. “F-feels – _oh!_...” Dean whispered, “Good. Cas. I— Oh-hhh—”

Castiel grasped Dean’s hips harder, planting his bare feet on the floor and driving – _screwing_ himself against Dean. The extended drag of movement pinned Dean to the couch, and his cry came out sounding downright erotic. Castiel gave a surprised laugh, repeating the movement until Dean’s toes curled, knees crooked. One heel braced him against the couch, the other tried to press between Castiel’s buttocks, searching for his heat.

“Mmm,” Dean groaned, eyelids half-closed, eyes not really focused on anything. He let Castiel breathe against his mouth again, lips too hot, tacky with saliva. Abruptly, Dean’s abdomen filled with twirling flurries of excitement as he felt the tip of Castiel’s tongue breach his open mouth, only for a second. Dean parted his lips wide, fingers gripping the soft curls of hair behind Cas’ ears, pulling him closer. “Wanna kiss,” he murmured. “Cas, please...”

Castiel closed his mouth over Dean’s, and Dean almost wailed and gasped at once, affected deeply by the softness and warmth in the contact. His body erupted in star-shimmer lights, his breath caught, and he stopped thinking. Cas stopped thrusting against him, too. They rested together, the pulsation of lust suspended for a moment of peace.

Their lips smacked gently, noses touching. Their attention centred on each other, gazing through half-closed eyes, soft pushes and explorative nudges giving them a better map of the other’s mouth and cheeks. It made Dean forget about the aching bruise on his arm, made him forget the weight of the mission resting on his shoulders. He felt his hips shift of their own accord; he was still hard, and tasting Castiel’s saliva and feeling his tongue run the rim of his teeth only made him feel more stimulated, sensation blazing in every inch of his body.

Castiel’s exhale shuddered over his plumped lips as he pulled away. “I think we’re supposed to be naked?”

Dean’s grin formed sloppily, now drunk on Castiel’s kisses. “We don’t have to be,” Dean said, skimming his thumb where Castiel’s skull met his spine. He was warm there; Dean wanted to sniff his thumb and find out what Cas’ natural oil smelled like on his skin, but it wasn’t the right time for that yet. Dean swallowed, nosing at Castiel’s lips and lifting his eyes to admire that glorious blue looking back.

“I would like to,” Castiel said. “Be unclothed, I mean.”

“Heh. Okay,” Dean muttered, taking a deep breath to settle his dizziness. Castiel slipped off him to stand, and Dean’s hand flew to his own crotch, and an unfortunately beggarly utterance escaped his lips. He frowned up at Castiel, who smirked.

Dean squeezed his clothed erection as he watched Castiel take off his shirt. Fine muscles formed the brow to Castiel’s hipbones, and as he stretched up, he showed off the long, smooth line of his torso. Dean felt a spurt of pre-come escape into his underwear, and he gripped the bulge between his legs harder, tensing and untensing his buttocks, enjoying the sensation it gave. Castiel threw his shirt onto the back of the couch, then looked down at his own body.

Dean gasped with his mouth already open: Castiel pinched at his own nipple, appearing uncertain as to why it had hardened. He glanced at Dean, and Dean could barely see him through the heatwaves shimmering through his vision. Dean whimpered, feeling a sleek, wet dot under his hand.

Castiel let go of his nipple and moved his hands to his trousers. Before taking them off, he ran his hand over the rise inside them, flat palm over a mountain. Dean quivered, not thinking at all as he undid his own pants, eyes focused on Castiel undoing his.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean murmured, seeing the tip of Castiel’s penis exposed. Dean began to pull at his own fattening heat, his sweaty palm wedged inside his underwear, wrapped tightly around his cock. As Dean pleasured himself, Castiel pushed his waistband down, revealing the full shape of his member. Pink and thick, gleaming wet at the slit, bobbing once as a pulse of blood went through it. Castiel held on to his trousers, focused on Dean’s face... as if he was waiting for a verdict.

“It’s— You’re—” Dean was unable to speak, his tongue moving loose and his mind in a haze. “Never s-seen it before. Another hard one. I didn’t look last time we touched, so— Y-you’re, um. It’s nice. Please— Please, I wanna—”

Castiel crawled over Dean to meet with his reaching hand, then pressed his hips and cock against Dean’s. Dean was overcome with pleasured surprise; he thrust in return, hips lifting from the couch. He watched it happen, eyes on his own cock as Castiel rutted against him, skin juddering, pudgy shapes of _unbelievably_ sensitive flesh rubbing and rolling between their hips.

Dean gave a soft “Mmuhhh, yes,” and Castiel kissed his cheek.

Dean looked down, unwilling to miss a single moment of this sight. He pulled up his own cotton shirt from the hem, exposing his belly; Castiel set both hands on his hot skin, and Dean cried out, seeing another wet squirt of his pre-come mingle with Castiel’s. The shine of it smeared all across his pubic hair, and he made feverish noise of excitement as Castiel ran his fingers through the slickness.

“Beautiful,” Castiel said, voice layered with so many passionate weights it became toneless, but Dean still heard his emotion. Dean looked up and saw honesty in Castiel’s eyes. “Dean, you are incredible.”

“Humans are fascinating, right?” Dean breathed, a grin fluttering at the corner of his mouth. “They get all stiff and wet when they get excited.”

“You, Dean. I mean you specifically,” Castiel said, cupping Dean’s jaw and pulling him up for a kiss. Dean moaned lightly, eyes falling shut. He let Castiel have control, let him lick his way beyond his teeth, tongue curling back against Dean’s own tongue. He’d never known before that taste buds could be so aware, not only of the bittersweet tang of Castiel’s saliva, but of the roughened sense of other taste buds rolling past as Castiel licked them. Dean let out a choked gasp, thoroughly taken aback by that movement. Castiel kissed his lips dry, pushing another breath down Dean’s throat. Dean accepted it, then exhaled back, breaking the kiss with a smile when Castiel coughed and ducked away, smiling.

Then Castiel rolled over, sitting his bare ass on the couch, thighs parted only as far as his trousers would allow, bunched around his knees. He wrapped his hand around his penis and tugged; Dean heard the slickened sound of fluid coating his palm.

Dean was lost to the sight for a long moment, until Castiel lifted his clean hand and ran the backs of his fingers against Dean’s cheek. “Pleasure yourself with me,” he said to Dean, an open as invitation as any.

Dean wet his lips and turned over too, but paused, one hand holding his weight on Castiel’s muscular thigh, his other hand curled against the couch’s back frame. “How?” Dean asked. “More – rubbing? Or licking, or...?”

Castiel grasped Dean’s hip and guided him forward, and they mirrored the position they’d been in before, Dean’s left leg slotted over Castiel’s, erections thrusting together. Dean’s hips moved in smooth rotations, mimicking penetrative sex, sliding in the lubrication his own penis produced. His eyes locked to Castiel’s, and they both smiled, a little shyly, a little boldly.

Without warning, Castiel grabbed Dean’s ass and dragged him closer, higher; Dean yelped, arching over Castiel’s shoulder as he drove against his belly, feeling Cas’ cock slipping around between his legs, the wet tip digging into the groove behind his scrotum.

“Ohhh, Cas— Oh, I really like that...”

“Good,” Castiel said, kissing Dean’s shoulder, his neck, his throat. “Good, Dean.”

“More,” Dean rasped. “Do it more, do it more.”

Castiel hesitated, as he didn’t know what Dean meant – frankly, neither did Dean – but a moment later, Dean felt the startling sensation of a hand between his legs. A fingertip tickled the ridge behind his testicles, and a thumb scooted back in the wetness Cas’ cock smudged there. Dean then felt Castiel masturbating against him, cockhead rubbing into the fat between Dean’s thighs. Dean could only gasp at the ceiling, seeing the sun catch on the plant leaves where they dangled. “Cas— Cas! Yes!”

Dean shut his eyes and keened open-mouthed as Castiel began to suck on his nipple, head bent down; Dean touched the curve in his neck with his hands, gripping his hair tight in his pleasure. His head was filled with sights he could feel but not see: Cas touching himself and dirtying his hands with clear fluid, getting it all over Dean’s upper thighs, where it shone in rebounding sunlight. Castiel’s tongue rolled against the nub on Dean’s chest, playing with it, hot, then cold as Castiel took a breath and flicked at it with the point of his nose instead. Dean looked down, panting hard with his chin against his sternum, and he watched Castiel run his tongue upwards, lapping over his nipple. Their eyes met; Castiel’s were as dark as night, and Dean imagined his own were the same.

Every part of this was new for him, and every sensation was as precious as gold. No, not even gold was worth so much to his hungry heart. As precious as life itself. The lives of those he loved. Cas’ life. Castiel was simply irreplaceable. He was what Dean loved.

“You,” Dean said, panting down into Castiel’s face, over his eyes. “Cas, you. I feel— Oh, no, no, please, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Castiel lifted his face and kissed Dean. Dean sank down, allowing time for Castiel to move his hands out from under him. Castiel took hold of Dean’s waist; Dean rocked on his lap, and their demonstrations of affection turned to swaying gestures of pleasure, gentle. Dean turned his head, groaning deeply as Castiel broke his lips apart, sealed them closed, then licked them open again – over and over. Their breath got tangled, caught up in unsettled rhythms.

At last, when Castiel nuzzled Dean’s mouth away, Dean pressed his own lips together, feeling the engorging passion of moments ago still thick in his mouth.

Castiel stroked Dean’s hips, fingers roaming the mirrored pads of fat over his buttocks. Dean had never been ashamed of his ability to retain good food, and he wasn’t now, either: Castiel grasped at anywhere there was softness, and Dean stretched into it, back arching forward so he could rut and be caressed at the same time.

He accepted the hug Castiel gave him, and they embraced as they nudged at the hip. Their bodies were as close to being one as they could get, Dean thought. He rested his cheek on Castiel’s temple and grinned a secret grin, fingers lost in Cas’ hair. “Love you,” he whispered to him. His eyes slipped shut, and he turned to kiss Castiel’s ear. There he breathed in his scent deeply; a syrupy hum wandered up from his throat, and he sighed his appreciation.

Castiel kissed Dean’s shoulders, and those tiny sensations were enough to keep Dean’s hips rolling, still greedy, not yet satisfied.

Dean sank into Castiel’s mouth when their lips found each other. He nibbled at him, then grinned when Castiel chuckled and eased away from his teeth. “Sorry,” Dean muttered.

“Don’t be,” Castiel whispered, kissing Dean all over again. It was a wholesome contact, broad and unbidden.

When Castiel pulled back by half an inch to breathe, he mouthed against Dean’s lips: “You really mean that, don’t you? You love me?”

“Yeah,” Dean grinned. “Come on, Cas, you already know I do. I wouldn’t be human right now if I didn’t.”

“Because—? Because your love gives me power—”

“And you had enough power to change me back. Just— _fuck_ , Cas, kiss me, I love you. You’re makin’ me get all soppy, for God’s sake.”

Regardless, Dean was smiling widely while they kissed. He could feel Cas’ rather bewildered smirk too, which made it all the more rewarding.

Their rutting sped as Dean began to get overexcited; his breath wouldn’t slow, his mouth wouldn’t shut except in a kiss. His hips refused to maintain a steady rhythm, but the unexpected jogs and jolts made it all the more invigorating. They went harder and rougher, and Dean felt blinded by the throbbing in his head, in his hands, in his gut and the space between his legs; he was heavy and blood-filled, burning as hot as the sun in his skin and heart and soul.

He cried out, head falling back as his body dragged against Castiel’s, physical bliss causing near-mindless outcries, spine rolling in waves that could have him mistaken for possessed.

Castiel held him still and steady as Dean all but fell over backwards, climax pulling him from control. He saw nothing, only the maddened fluttering of daylight through his eyelids; he felt the hot splash of semen spill across his belly. And then he felt the wetness of that same spill, as Castiel pulled him close and continued to ride against him, pressing up. Kisses adorned Dean’s clavicle, his raw, hollow throat, his gaping lips. He could barely respond to these otherworldly communications, his mind was off swimming in a galaxy somewhere.

Only Castiel’s voice served to ground him. “Dean,” his said, in his low, impossible growl. “Oh, Dean, it’s so warm.”

Dean cracked open his eyes and smiled blearily at Castiel, who looked as enchanted by Dean’s ejaculation as Dean had been. Dean looked down and breathed in ragged huffs, seeing the white fluid being utilised for its slickness between their bodies. Castiel went on pleasuring himself on Dean’s skin, mixing a thicker consistency of fluid into Dean’s with every push of his hips.

“Warm,” Dean repeated distantly. He smiled at Castiel, continuing to move, giving Cas more to rub on. “I remember thinking that,” he panted. “You made me warm. Like a fire. And I— Oh. Are you gonna come?”

Castiel hesitated, looking down in concern, then up at Dean. He looked frazzled, all shaken up. He nodded quickly. “Mm. Mm-hm,” he said. “Come. I’m gonna come.”

Dean kissed at his forehead, humming a gentle note. He circled his hips against Cas’ cock, positioned awkwardly so Castiel’s enlivened cadency wouldn’t bother his own softening penis. “I remember thinkin’, Cas. Maybe – _mmh_. Maybe being here would give me a chance to chase my dreams.”

“And? D- _Ah!_ Did it?”

“Dream coming true right now,” Dean whispered intently against Castiel’s ear, feeling the harsh, core-deep and desperate meaning in his own words. “Sex like this. With you. With someone like you.”

His hand slipped between their hips and he took hold of Castiel’s erection, grinning when Castiel’s head rolled back, eyes shut tight. Dean kissed his jaw, his neck, his ear, all the while tugging on his rock-hard flesh. Dean’s thumb teased past the slit, then played on the crinkled rim, while his hand squeezed at the full shape of Cas’ erection. He went on watching what his hand did, groaning a note of enjoyment at the sheer sight of it, the weight of it.

“Wanted it so bad,” Dean said, hushed. “To lay with someone who could get hard against me. Get me wet and hold me down. Someone stronger. Someone I could trust. And trust with anything, not that one secret alone.” Dean lifted his hand and licked the salty liquid from his fingers, under the pretence of adding more slick. He returned the hand to Cas, pleased to hear a thunderous moan trapped in his throat, pleased to see the lucid roll of his whole body as he flooded with pleasure, pressure built by Dean’s hand.

“I love that I can trust you,” Dean said, lying against Castiel with his body to the side, forehead on Castiel’s cheek, still watching his hand work Cas to completion. “I can talk to you about monsters, and my past, and my – I don’t know, my sexuality. I’d never need to keep secrets. That’s always been important to me, honesty. Guess you wouldn’t know it to look at me.”

“Mnnggnhhhhh,” Castiel replied. His hands gripped Dean’s hips hard, his lips parting as his neck stretched on the back of the couch. “Deeeeaan—”

“God... yeah, there you go,” Dean rasped, eager eyes watching the spasm in Castiel’s body. His feet slammed to the floor, his hips hovered off the couch, and he juddered once, twice more, then he came over Dean’s hand, squirting a thick splatter of white muck onto his skin.

Castiel moaned again, sagging into the couch, legs trembling.

Dean kept pumping, going slower and slower until Castiel was thoroughly spent. He didn’t know what to do with the semen on his hand, so he wiped it on his trousers, which sagged around his knees. Castiel made exquisitely vulnerable noises as he settled, sweat on his face and chest, reddened in those same places.

Dean hummed happily, leaning close to smother Castiel’s panting mouth with kisses. “Thanks for being such a good sport, Cas.”

“Mhh, you’re welcome,” Castiel muttered. His eyes blinked open like he was awakening from a deep sleep, and he stared at the ceiling rafters for a while. “Although,” he breathed, “it was me who initiated our intimacy. I should be... _hh_... thanking _you_.”

“I didn’t mean just this time,” Dean said, running his fingers over Castiel’s nipple, grinning when the surrounding muscle shuddered in reaction. “I meant the whole thing. From right back when you saved me from the firehand. I ‘ppreciate it.”

Castiel then turned his eyes to Dean, and Dean felt a swell of delight in his heart when Castiel smiled.

They were exhausted, but perfectly satiated, and absolutely nothing could ruin this for them.

Something whooshed past the roof of the hut, something big. Dean and Castiel both looked up to the rafters where the sound came from, but it didn’t come again. Instead, there came a heavy thump of weight onto the ground outside.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked under his breath, sitting up. The intrusion had been sobering, and while Dean’s heart rate and breathing didn’t level off immediately, his sense of dreamy wonder was scooped clean out of him. He stood up, eyes on the window to outside as he shucked on his trousers.

Castiel stood up behind him, and they breathed quietly, listening as they pulled on their clothes.

“Let’s go,” Castiel said, walking past Dean before Dean even had his shirt on. Castiel was topless too, but he carried his cotton shirt to the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, and looked back at Dean for reassurance.

“I’m with you,” Dean nodded, bunching his shirt onto his forearms. Castiel looked at the door, then pulled it open.

The two of them went out bare-footed into the temperate air. Nothing seemed amiss at first; Dean’s eyes went to the blue sky, then shut for a moment as he pulled his shirt on, then he looked over at the whirlwind of autumn leaves on the right, five feet from Castiel’s flower garden.

The whistling wind died down, and the tiny tornado floated back to the ground. Gabriel stood there, holding the stick of Castiel’s garden windmill in his hand. The colourful toy whizzed around in the puff of his breath, and he only looked up when he heard Castiel’s shout of “Hey!”

Gabriel had shaved his moustache off since the previous day. He peered over at Dean and Castiel, then tucked the windmill into his lapel. “Greetings, dear Thunder!”

“Earth is off limits to you! To all gods!” Castiel blared, storming out across the leaves, shoulders squared as he straightened his crumpled shirt. Dean followed a pace behind, filling up with ire faster than he could process his thoughts. Castiel articulated them all aloud, however: “I gave you my power, Gabriel, I gave you everything I have! What more could you possibly want?”

“First off, I want this little doohickey,” Gabriel said, pointing a stubby finger at the rainbow windmill. “It’s so cute I could just _die_.”

“That doesn’t seem like too bad an option,” Dean said, feeling a dangerous twitch in his upper lip. “Didn’t Cas make it clear yesterday? He wants nothing to do with you. I’ve dealt with my fair share of family members who think they hear a ‘yes’ when someone says ‘no’, so don’t you dare go around thinking Cas is going to put up with it. Get off the planet, before we _make_ you.”

Gabriel pulled a theatrical sad face. “Can’t a humble god pay an innocent visit to his poor, powerless sibling?”

“No,” Dean and Castiel snapped at the same time.

Castiel stepped forward and plucked the windmill out of Gabriel’s velvet jacket, and Dean silently cheered for him.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asked, without tone.

“I came to give you a little head-start,” Gabriel said, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Let’s call it a game. Guess What Gabriel Wants Before He Takes It.”

Dean took a breath and started forward. “Do you even know what you’ve done to this place? What effect taking Cas’ power is having on this forest?”

“Not my problem, is it?” Gabriel smiled, crinkling up his piggy eyes. “Thunder went ahead and sealed the deal himself. He didn’t listen to your warnings when you tried to dissuade him, so why should I listen to you either?”

“You’re an ass,” Dean sneered.

“Oh, what’s what?” Gabriel cupped his hand to his ear, looking around. “Did anyone else hear something? No? No.”

Dean looked at Castiel in exasperation, but the expression slipped when he saw the honest fear in Castiel’s face. He clung to that windmill as if it was the only safe thing in the world, and Dean came to the realisation that there might be something legitimately terrible afoot.

Dean turned to Gabriel, who was examining a group of pine needles held between his thumb and forefinger.

“So what _do_ you want?” Dean asked, in a reasonable way. “The windmill, is that it?”

He clenched his teeth when Gabriel turned away, pretending not to hear.

“You like humanity, right?” Dean stepped forward again. “Western civilisation? Guess there’s no explaining to you that humanity is made up of a lot more than Colonial architecture and tailored clothes. There’s people who live in tipis, and mud huts, and boats. They’re human too, you can’t go pretending they don’t exist in your version of humanity.”

Gabriel hummed a tune, twirling a finger and making Castiel’s flowers uproot themselves, dancing in circles around the three of them. Dean felt deeply unhappy, but didn’t dare to look at Castiel in case he saw him crying.

Dean swallowed. “You’re really gonna make us guess what you want, aren’t you. You want more power, more magic? You wanna ruin Cas’ life? Listen, you coward, you’re the one who exiled him. The least you can do is leave him alone with the life he made for himself. There’s something wrong with you. Just—” Gabriel began to whistle over Dean. Dean flared with anger and launched himself at Gabriel. “Gahh!”

“Dean, don’t!” Castiel shouted, but Dean was already floating five feet over the ground.

“ _Dean, don’t!_ ” Gabriel mocked, twirling Dean around. “Aww, Deanie, I think Thunder cares about you.”

“Gabriel, let him go!” Castiel cried, grasping Gabriel by the arm and shaking him roughly. “If it’s me you want, take me!”

“Why would I want you? You’re empty,” Gabriel said, making Dean drift across to the roof. Dean struggled and kicked, trying to yell, but words came out silent, and he couldn’t fight the effortless glide as he was plopped down onto the slanted thatch of the hut.

“So, what is it?!” Castiel bellowed. “What do you _want_?!”

The floating spell lifted from Dean, and he felt heavy again. His hands gripped the twiggy roof, breathing too quickly. His eyes trained on the ground – it seemed miles away. But the dizziness and the sound of Castiel yelling at his sibling faded, and Dean experienced a moment of calmness.

He looked out over the forest, seeing the triangular trees reaching for ice-blue skies with their spires, watching the birds flit in and out from their branches. He listened to the forest. He listened hard, and he heard a whisper.

He didn’t know what the whisper said, but the whisper itself was everything.

Dean snapped out of his trance and skidded to the edge of the roof, fearless of the drop. He knocked thatch loose as he made it to the lowest edge, the heel of his foot in the gutter. Without looking down, he leapt off the side and landed on the top of the rainwater barrel, then simply jumped down and rolled along the ground, heels over his head. He came up in a crouch with his fingers to the ground, disoriented but unharmed.

He stood and walked straight up to Gabriel, with barely a glance thrown in Castiel’s direction. Dean lifted his chin and unstuck his tense jaw, glaring at Gabriel as he said, “I know what you want.”

“And what is that, exactly?” Gabriel asked, one eyebrow cocked. Dean could tell he was impressed he’d gotten down off the roof without help, but Dean wasn’t about to gloat, not when he had something so important waiting on his tongue.

“You want the forest,” Dean said. “You want the forest spirits.”

He heard the horror in Castiel’s whisper: “ _No._ ”

“Now you’re getting somewhere,” Gabriel said, too smugly.

“Why,” Castiel demanded. “Gabriel, why?!”

“Never was there an easier score,” Gabriel said with a shrug, turning away and wandering closer to the hut, where Castiel’s flowers lay scattered around the garden, homeless and doomed to die. “You’re out of magic, you sure can’t protect your sad little Eden.”

“That’s because you took my magic!” Castiel said, audibly pained by these new progressions, things he was useless to control. “Gabriel, I knew you were a glutton, but I never thought you could be this cruel. You weren’t asking for my magic to use as an alternative power source, you tricked me into giving it up so there was nobody to defend Earth!”

“Helloooo, _Trickster_ ,” Gabriel sang, pointing to himself.

“That—” Castiel’s voice became ghost-like, “That’s why you kidnapped all those people. To get me to the Meridian, to get me to give up my power. You’ve been playing a long game. And this is what you were leading up to, taking my forest from me?”

Dean slowly shook his head, thinking for the first time in his life that he might have been let off easy when God was assigning abusive family members to their victims.

Gabriel strutted about, hands behind his back like he already owned the ground he walked on. “Vanity was always your poison, Thunder. Your way was better! Your morals were more pure! I’ll admit you had a point on occasion, but we gods have our faults. Gluttony is mine, there’s no use denying. But you. It goes beyond vanity. Why do you care so much? This place is just a land of twigs and parasites! Too much heart. Too much heart was always your problem.”

“In humans,” Dean said, “that ain’t usually regarded as a personality flaw.”

“Oh, but in gods,” Gabriel countered, “it’s grounds for exile. You care too much about what isn’t yours.”

Dean’s mind betrayed him for a split-second, thinking of all the unimportant things Castiel had stolen. Shoes, new paper, Dean’s pen and ink. But he said nothing: he would remain loyal and stand with Cas, as he was the victim. God knew Dean wished someone had stood with him at the worst of times.

“I’ll come back for the forest,” Gabriel said. “At sunset, perhaps. When the lighting is more dramatic.” He stood facing Dean and Castiel, a big smile on his face. “Ta-ta, little rainstorm.”

Then he vanished in a splash of colour and a strike of light, leaving a starburst scorch mark on the ground.

“That’s not possible,” Castiel said, his fist grabbing Dean’s shirt from the front. He was staring at the space Gabriel had left. “Instant transportation without a portal is impossible. Portals themselves use an immense amount of power, that’s why I didn’t use them to get around any time I needed to go anywhere. That’s why I would rather carry you on my back than open a portal. They are _draining_ for my species.”

“So?” Dean asked, curling a gentle hand around Castiel’s white-knuckled fist.

“So,” Castiel said, looking Dean in the eye, “if Gabriel has the power to transport himself between here and somewhere else without so much as hinting at a portal, he must have ten, twenty... _thirty_ times as much power as he should.”

“Thirty...” Dean mouthed the number quietly. Then his breath halted in his throat. He stared at Castiel and said what they were both thinking. “He’s taken the power of everyone else in the Meridian.”

Castiel’s expression shattered and washed over with grief, and he stumbled away, letting go of Dean’s shirt. Dean reached for him as he fell to the ground and knelt, wailing aloud. “That’s why we saw none of the other gods in the Meridian! He already tricked them out of their power, maybe exiled them too. What if he means to suffocate their planets as well?”

“He’s trying to take over the universe?” Dean said in disbelief. “What kind of crazy son of a bitch tries to do that?”

“Trickster is and always was a con artist,” Castiel said. “That’s why our Mother named him as She did.”

“Your mother,” Dean intoned. “There’s a big boss god running around somewhere?”

“She died, Dean,” Castiel said, looking at Dean as Dean knelt beside him in the leaves, hair ruffled by the greying wind. “Our Mother grew sick and tired of life, of all She’d created, and in death, She divided Her power equally between Her children. The most went to us, those of the Meridian.”

“Wait, are you telling me your mother created the universe?” Dean blinked a few times, unsure he’d even heard the words right coming out of his own mouth. “Your mom was _the_ God?”

“I suppose it would seem that way,” Castiel said softly, looking away, into the whispering trees. “She wasn’t female, in case you were wondering. Creators are beyond things such as gender.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly.

Castiel went on, “We each received certain powers from our Mother; I became the thunder, the lightning, the tide, the formation of clouds, and the turn of the moons around every planet. I lost much of that when I was exiled. The others in the Meridian got other magics, most used to instil cosmic change of varying types, others to conjure sentience and emotion within lesser creatures. We share some similar traits: the ability to create portals, for example. The rest of our Mother’s magic was divided between the other planets. Earth was among them, but we weren’t to know that until I was exiled here.”

Castiel sighed slowly, then said, “Gabriel... His magic was the sudden and the surprising: spontaneous life on dead planets, meteor strikes. Dinosaurs, I believe, were some of his proudest creations. He wasn’t the youngest of us, but he was the most immature. He liked to play mind games, usually to an end of teaching someone a lesson. He likened himself to an educator like our Mother, but he never matched Her subtlety.”

Castiel paused, meeting Dean’s eye with a burdened gaze. “It worsened after our Mother left. Now, I suspect Gabriel may have loved Her too much to let Her memory die.”

“Wh... What do you mean?”

Castiel pulled a constipated expression, then released it and frowned. “I think Gabriel may be trying to... become God.”

“For what? What purpose?!”

Castiel shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything? Gabriel likes his treats but I don’t think he could really derive any pleasure from this. He feels loss, perhaps. Grief.”

“He’s so hung up on your mom being gone that he’s willing to tear apart creation in Her memory? To honour Her? Jesus, Cas. And I thought Sam cheating me at tic-tac-toe was an asshole thing to do.”

Castiel sat back on his heels, taking a deep breath as he gazed up at the clouding sky, tears forming in his eyes. “I remember... laughter. Always so much laughter. When our Mother paused in Her supervision of the universe and came to play with us, we felt brighter. We would glow like suns. Stars.” He shook his head, lowering his chin to his chest. “I miss the stars.”

Dean reached over to give Castiel’s hand a squeeze. “We can stop him, right? Stop Gabriel?”

Castiel tilted his head in a doubtful way. The tip of his tongue parted his lips, and then he sighed. “The best we can do is to fight him.”

“He’s got most of God’s power in him,” Dean said. “Do we even have a chance against that?” He chuckled nervously. “I’m not gonna lie, the prospect of going up against something mojo’d up thirty times bigger than what I ever saw in you... that scares me. That really fucking scares me, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel said, too quickly. “I know, I’m scared too.”

“We’re mortal, he’s not.”

“I know.”

Dean swallowed. “So... what’s the plan?”


	18. The Last Supper

They were out of breath by the time they made it to the outpost, and they clung to each other to stay upright. Their journey had been made short: upon entering the woodland in the forest, all they’d had to do was close their eyes and they appeared at the forest’s edge, at the opening that led to a field. It was the journey from there to the town that wore them out; Dean felt he was running too slowly, no matter how fast he sprinted.

“Stop for a bit,” Dean huffed, grabbing Castiel’s sleeve as they passed the first building in the main street and slowed to a walk. “Catch your breath. We gotta find Sam.”

“Post office,” Castiel said, leaving the grip of Dean’s hand and running ahead. He turned as he ran and called back, “You find Elsie and Missouri! They will want to help!”

“But—” Dean had to stop to pant in clouds over his thighs, watching Castiel disappear down the street. His head was full of doubts: bringing Miss Elsie and Missouri into it would put them in unnecessary danger.

Dean straightened up and shook his head, licking his lips as his breathing settled. “Just Sam,” he said, starting to walk after Castiel. He saw him go into the post office, and he sighed. “Oh, God, we are so unprepared for this.”

He bristled all over when he saw Castiel emerge from the post office with his hands up, walking backwards. The postmistress followed him out, pointing a gun at him.

“Hey!” Dean yelled, starting to run again, spurred on by fear. “Hey, leave him alone!”

He saw the flash of light from the barrel of the gun before he heard the shot, but Castiel didn’t fall, he was unharmed. Dean reached him in time to come between him and the postmistress. “Stop! Stop, he’s not the monster!”

The postmistress didn’t lower her gun, but let one hand go free so she could poke her glasses further up her thin nose. “I’d know that face anywhere! It’s been twenty years, twenty years and he still looks half my age! Don’t you tell me that’s not the work of the devil! I’ve seen him weasel his way into my shop, I’ve seen him steal clothes right out of my husband’s cupboard! That _creature_ there is no more human than—”

“Lady!” Dean stepped in front of her again, both hands raised to her. “Ma’am, he’s human now. He wasn’t before but he is now, all right? And non-human doesn’t mean dangerous! You kept pigeons once, didn’t you? Those things used to break the chimneys with their nests, and you never tried to shoot them for it! Cas was just doing what he needed to live, to be comfortable and safe.” He started forward when she aimed her gun again. “You can’t blame him for sneaking around, not when any time he shows his face he gets a mouthful of shotgun pellets!”

The postmistress snorted, her wrinkled jaw steeled and her eyes narrowed to slits. Dean was vaguely aware of a crowd gathering, a suspicious muttering filling the air.

“Hey,” said a gnarled old voice, “isn’t that the kid? The missing kid? Jimmy—”

“Jimmy Novak,” Castiel said. Dean turned to see him standing tall, as defiant as he could be. “This is Jimmy’s body, but I am not him.”

“Then where is he?!” shouted someone else, shaking a handful of carrots at Castiel. “He goes into the forest twenty years ago and all we’ve heard since then are stories! People saw him, he was a – a ghost...”

Dean stepped closer to Castiel, touching his hand to his heart. “He’s not a ghost! He’s as real as you or me, and right now he’s got real important stuff to do. We’re still trying to save your forest, something bad is about to happen. Please – let us past, we need to find Sam. Sam Winchester.”

“He’s in the tavern,” came a woman’s Scottish accent. Dean turned his head and saw Charlie Bradbury standing as part of the wall of people, draped in a thick wool shawl and clad in a new maroon dress, this one slightly darker than the last. She looked mature as opposed to old; her hair was curled elegantly over her head, in a style suited to her looks rather than the age of her soul.

“Thank you,” Dean finally managed to say. He hesitated; Charlie was walking away. Dean realised he and Castiel were meant to follow. He took Castiel around the forearm, and pulled him through the line of people. He heard tutting, whispered questions, but no bold opposition.

“Wait,” came a call from the crowd. Dean turned at the same time Castiel did, and they looked back at an elderly man, someone Dean recognised from the bone cages in the Meridian. A woodcutter. The man took a laboured breath, blinked his wrinkled eyes, then asked, “What about Novak’s uncle? Did he ever know the boy lived?”

Castiel curled a hand into Dean’s shirt in distress at the question. “Jimmy didn’t live. And unless his uncle ever saw me wander the town... a ghost to him... then no. No, I never made contact.”

The old man lifted his chin, and his jowls shivered. “Now would be a prime time to tell him, don’t you think?”

Castiel’s breath caught, and Dean was unnerved to see him back away by a step. “No,” he breathed. “N-no, I can’t—”

He turned and fled, and Dean was left staring after him, his running figure strong with muscle but undoubtedly weak with cowardice. “Cas, what the hell,” Dean muttered.

Shaking his head, he ran after Castiel, hearing shouts and jeers from a long way behind. Dean ran to Charlie, who still walked with a slight limp. Dean frowned ahead at Castiel. He had run straight to the tavern, paused beneath the wooden awning overhanging the porch, looked back once, then gone inside.

“Poor uncle,” Dean said, putting his hands in his pockets. “Twenty years never knowing what happened to his nephew? Gotta suck.”

Charlie gave Dean a sidelong look, but didn’t say anything.

They reached the tavern and Dean pushed open the wooden door for her, letting her enter first. The warmth gushed over Dean’s face as he followed her in, and he sighed at the familiar smell of fermented yeast and old wood. The stairs to the boarding rooms (the ones with non-infested beds) were positioned on the right, leading straight up past the ceiling.

This was not a large tavern; it was cramped like all the other buildings in Black Hills Outpost, but it was homey. A large fire crackled in a stone hearth on the left, and a small collection of unoccupied tables were positioned between the fire and the door. Dean could hear a voice coming from somewhere unseen.

He wandered to the left looking for Castiel, and the tapping of Charlie’s boots to the floor followed him. There seemed to be nobody here.

“The people who ran this tavern already left for Kansas,” Charlie said. “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

Dean rounded the staircase, and what he saw made him inhale smoky air sharply; he coughed. There, in the far corner of the room was a table laid out with food and drink. High over the table was a narrow, shuttered window which extended to the adjoining wall, and a small amount of daylight mingled with candlelight and illuminated the faces of the people sitting at the table. On the far right was Sam, grinning as he talked to Missouri beside him, who was embroidering while Castiel watched her. To Missouri’s left was Elsie, and then Teresa, then Castiel.

Castiel looked up when he heard Dean’s second cough; he raised an arm and beckoned him and Charlie closer.

Dean approached unsurely. “You realise we’re working against the clock, right?” he asked, coming to a stop in front of the table. “Did Cas tell you?”

“Missouri told us,” Sam said, looking up and smiling at Dean reassuringly. “Dreams, you know. She took a well-timed nap, and now we’re all caught up.”

Dean fidgeted when Charlie sat down beside Sam. “We don’t have time...”

Missouri raised her eyebrows. “What time is it, honey?”

Dean gaped, then reached into his jacket and checked his pocket watch. “Fifteen past two.”

Teresa smiled up at Dean with her cheeks stuffed full of bread. “Gabriel won’t be there ‘till sunset.”

“Yeah, but,” Dean glanced back towards the door. “But we have to—”

“Sit, Dean,” Castiel said, tugging Dean down by his shirt. Dean fell into a chair and Castiel pulled him closer to the table, then handed him a damp cloth to clean his hands.

“What is this?” Dean said. “A last meal?”

Missouri set down her embroidery with a sigh. “It’s a chance for us to talk,” she said, clearing away flyaway threads, then folding her project up and putting it into a cloth bag. “God only knows when we’ll get another opportunity.”

Dean swallowed; she hadn’t contradicted his assumption at all.

“Heh,” Sam said. “ _God_ only knows.”

“Don’t you go making fun,” Elsie scolded Sam from across the table, dumping a full plate of salad and bread and butter and cheese in front of Dean. “I believe in gods, they’re real to me as the world is to you. I always knew the Great Spirit existed somewhere, it doesn’t surprise me to find out it’s true.”

“Surprised me,” Teresa said, cramming more bread in her mouth. She shrugged guiltily at Elsie, then smirked as she gulped down her mouthful. “Mostly ‘cause I didn’t expect to be friends with the Great Spirit’s child.” She nudged Castiel in the side, and Dean couldn’t help but smile when Castiel smiled shyly back.

“We’re friends?” Castiel asked Teresa.

Teresa frowned. “You saved my life, of course we’re friends.” She handed Castiel some bread. “Eat this, but don’t swallow for a while. It’ll go sweet in your mouth.”

Castiel ate the bread. In the meantime, Dean looked over at Missouri and saw her gazing at him with that all-knowing look Dean associated more with a mother than with an oracle.

“What,” Dean intoned, reluctantly picking up the washcloth.

“Relax, baby,” Missouri said, quiet enough that she didn’t interrupt Charlie and Sam as they talked, or Castiel and Elsie and Teresa. “Everything’s gonna turn out fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Dean said, unable to touch any of the food in front of him. “Gabriel is going to wipe us all out. If the forest dies, then what? He’s not going to stop there. He’s going to rip apart the whole universe. We don’t stand a chance.”

“All the more reason to enjoy your food while you can, then.” Missouri picked up a sundried tomato and popped it into her mouth, shutting her eyes to savour it.

Dean sighed.

The door to the tavern opened then closed, unseen behind the stairs. Nobody came into view, so Dean assumed it was the wind opening the door; the bluster of cold air swirled through the tavern and dissipated.

“—it won’t, though,” he heard Castiel saying. “Black Hills Forest is one of many forests with spirits. I’d go so far as to say all forests have them, but the spirits in this one are particularly enriched. It was my magic that made them sentient and able to communicate, so without my power they’ll soon become mute. Then die.”

Dean leaned forward and invited himself into the conversation. “But you don’t know that, do you? You don’t know for sure that they’ll die?”

Castiel turned his warm blue eyes on Dean, soulful with the grief he was trying to hide. “Like Missouri and her dreams, I can’t know anything for certain. I can’t pull information from nowhere. But being in this place, being in the presence of so much magic for so long, it...” He looked over to Missouri. “I don’t know what the word is.”

“Augments. It augments all other magic,” Missouri said, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “My ability to see what’s already happened wouldn’t be nearly as powerful if I weren’t livin’ here, under Castiel’s rainclouds. Power like his radiates far and wide, strengthening anything it touches.”

Dean smiled at Castiel even though he wasn’t looking back. Dean felt so proud of him, just for existing – cowardice of earlier notwithstanding.

“The forest sustained me,” Castiel said. “I may have been powerful, but without the forest, I would have been very alone. I kept it young and beautiful, helping it to cultivate magic.”

Sam interrupted, “You’re the one who gave it the power to make that illusion forest.”

“And steal Dean’s lamp,” Missouri added. “It gave us a light outta nowhere.”

Castiel inclined his head, confirming.

Sam went on, “The illusion forest, that only appeared a week ago. Edward Black Running Coyote said when he went into the forest and got caught by the fire, it was just a forest. And the mayor’s son was the most recent to be taken before us – it was a regular forest for him, too. The forest obviously learns new things, it teaches itself. And it does its best to protect the people it cares about.”

Castiel nodded again. “Which, I’ll admit, is why I felt so responsible for Dean becoming a deer. In a way, what the forest spirits did was self-defence, but on the other hand it was an unwarranted attack.”

“Don’t worry, you’re forgiven,” Dean smirked. He picked up a hunk of cheese from his plate, raising it halfway to his mouth before he lowered it again, head buzzing with thought. “Hey, Cas. You and the forest. It’s kind of like my book, with Dorian and the painting. You’re Dorian, and the forest is the painting. You’re connected. You made a bad choice – well... y’know, the choice to give up your power – and the negative result shows in the forest. And— Oh!” Dean’s eyes widened as he realised something else. “And you reflected the forest’s bad side too: when you still had your power, you absorbed the forest’s decay, didn’t you? God! That’s why you were aging at all! You were never meant to age!”

Castiel lowered his eyes, inhaling. “Yes. Although, it’s possible the members of my species _were_ meant to grow old at some point, but with our continuing search for power to feed on, we’ve lived for millennia.”

“Huh. _Millenia_. Hell of an age gap,” Dean muttered under his breath, then bit his lip when Castiel glanced his way.

With a sigh, Castiel carried on, “Once I became aware of where the gods’ food was coming from, I turned to the Meridian ground itself for nourishment. To the other gods that was against our nature, they believed we were made to be predators. I disagreed, and I was cast down to Earth.” He smiled sadly. “I suppose I am a bit like Jimmy, shunning society to embrace the great outdoors.”

“No offence,” Sam said with a shrug, “but nobody likes a vegetarian who thinks everyone else should be vegetarian too.”

“Shuddup, Sam,” Dean said, clenching his jaw when Sam kicked him under the table.

“No, Sam’s right,” Charlie said quietly, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “No way I’m saying Gabriel kidnapping everyone was a good response... I mean, it was one of the... th-the worst experiences of my life.” She looked down at the table, an acute frown lining her face. “I’m—” Her lips trembled. “I’m, um, I’m. I’mmm—”

Elsie reached over the table to meet Charlie’s hand, and Charlie gripped it hard. She took an easier breath, then lifted her eyes to Dean’s and spoke. “People shouldn’t force their beliefs on others. Castiel distanced himself from the gods because their eating habits made him uncomfortable, but all I’m saying is, I can understand why trying to convert the other gods made them want to get rid of him.”

Dean swallowed, staring Charlie down. He looked away from her when Castiel heaved a sigh, but a small, rapidly enlarging part of Dean felt like he and Charlie had something in common.

In the few seconds of silence that followed, Dean reached across the table and speared a slice of smoked ham on a fork.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel asked, tracking Dean’s hand as he reached for some chicken, then some roast beef, piling it over his salad.

“I’m hungry,” Dean said. “I’m a goddamn meat-eater, okay. I’m sorry, Cas – I am. I can’t look at this plate and _not_ see a dead farmyard animal looking back at me. But I can’t survive my whole life on root vegetables and dairy.” He crammed the roast beef into his mouth and looked at Castiel apprehensively as he inhaled the slice. “Pleash dun’t hurt mm.”

Castiel returned his gaze in a calm manner, only frowning ever so slightly. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dean.”

“Hm.” Dean shut his eyes and took a deep breath, groaning in relief as the crispy, mouth-watering flavour of perfectly cooked pig infiltrated every sense he had. He chewed, then swallowed. “Mmmm, fuck yeah,” he sighed.

He heard Teresa snickering, but he didn’t look up from his plate for anything. He was in Heaven for a little while; the Apocalypse could wait.

Several minutes passed, and the six other people at the table joined Dean in a hearty feast. Dean listened to snatches of conversation, mostly speculation about what was to come at sunset, but occasionally they touched on lighter topics. They laughed as Missouri showed off her embroidery, illustrating a goose wearing a hat, monocle and moustache, and they laughed even more when Castiel recounted what Dean had written in one letter to Sam, about Castiel’s first embroidery attempt being a disaster.

“It was this big tangle of thread!” Dean laughed, holding his fingers an inch apart, beaming at Castiel beside him. “You couldn’t convince me it was a walnut even if I could taste it. You know, I bet if you still had magic, I _could’ve_ tasted it, and it wouldn’t have tasted like a walnut.”

The laughter settled a moment later, however, and everyone reluctantly sobered, because Dean was insensitive enough to add, “Oh. But you... you don’t have magic. Any more. Shit, I shouldn’t’ve— Sorry.”

Castiel didn’t seem terribly rattled, but his arms folded over the tabletop, staring at the leftover bread. Dean sipped at his ale with an uncomfortable tightness in his gut.

Dean wanted to make it right, so he put down his ale and reached to touch Castiel’s warm wrist. “Cas. If you... If you settle down and love a lot... you could still live forever. In a way.” He smiled softly when Castiel met his eyes. “You’ve got friends.” He gestured at the others around the table, and saw their smiles. “Family, I guess.”

“If the forest spirits die,” Castiel said, “I will be losing friends.”

Dean gulped, and slid his hand to touch Castiel’s fingers. His ears burned, aware that everyone else was looking at them. But these were safe people. These people were Dean’s family, his real family.

Castiel’s fingers laced between Dean’s, and they held onto each other in silence.

...Too much silence. Dean looked up, and saw that Missouri’s eyes, and Elsie and Teresa and Charlie’s eyes were all fixed on something behind Dean.

Dean took a quick breath and spun around, and Castiel turned too.

Mr. Trevor Horace stood over by the staircase. He was not red-faced in anger as Dean had come to expect of him, but he looked lost, his eyes set on Castiel.

Dean’s attention shot to Castiel, and he felt his heart plummet when he saw Castiel staring back at Horace with a haunting familiarity in his eyes. Dean didn’t understand, but the situation didn’t feel good.

Dean slid his hand away from Castiel’s, and looked back at Horace. “What do you want?” he asked. “This is a private party.”

“Dean,” Castiel said lowly. “This is – was – Jimmy’s uncle.”

Dean breathed in, realisation striking him cold. “Jimmy’s uncle was a slave trader.”

Trevor Horace stepped forward, reaching up to swipe the hat from his head. He held it to his chest, spinning it nervously. He came closer again, and Dean rose halfway out of his chair in reaction, but he felt Sam’s hand pushing him back down. Dean settled, but he didn’t feel any more relaxed.

“Jimmy,” Horace said, in his rasping, yet oily voice. “I— I thought you were gone for good.”

“I am gone for good,” Castiel said, then huffed. “Jimmy is gone. I’m not Jimmy.”

Horace frowned, squinting. Dean flooded with unease; he recognised that squint now, it was the same as Castiel’s squint. “But... But you’re here,” Horace said, moving a hand to Castiel’s cheek. He touched him – but before Dean could react, Castiel had already slapped Horace’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” Castiel snarled, getting up out of his seat slowly, grasping the table for support. “Didn’t you ever wonder why Jimmy left and never returned? You must’ve thought you deserved it, in twenty years you must’ve thought at least once that it was _you_ who drove him away.”

Horace shook his head, wide-eyed in bewilderment. He looked like he was seeing a ghost, and Dean could understand that. What he didn’t understand was why Castiel never shared his own story of abuse when Dean had opened up to him.

Perhaps... Perhaps Cas felt it wasn’t his story to tell, given that it was Jimmy’s memory and not his own experience. Yes, that must be why.

“I thought it was you,” Horace said shakily, still spinning his hat around and around in his hands. “I thought all those people were going into the forest to _be_ with you, Jimmy. You were leading them away. There was no monster, there was never a monster. You were the pied piper of Black Hills.”

“No,” Castiel said coolly. “Mr. Horace, I am not Jimmy. My name is Castiel, and yesterday, I was a god. I’m just a man now.”

Some part of what Castiel said seemed to register in Horace’s mind, because he frowned again, and his breath quickened. “You,” he said. “You’re _Cas-tiel_.”

“Yes.”

“I dreamed... I dreamed about you!” Horace looked horrified at his own words, stumbling back a step and dropping his hat. “You killed him. You killed my boy, my Jimmy, my little baby Jimmy—”

“He didn’t kill anyone,” Dean said, standing up.

But Castiel’s hand pressed to Dean’s chest, and Castiel shook his head. “Please, Dean, let me.” Dean sat back down, gripping the back of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

“You killed him,” Horace wailed, now having gotten as far as the stairs, shaking on his legs, holding a wooden pillar for support. “You dashed him to pieces and ate his soul, you ride his skin about like a wagon—”

“No. No,” Castiel went forward, and Dean heard emotion crack his voice as he said, “Please, don’t believe that about me.”

“You!” Horace suddenly raised an arm, and pointed across the room at Dean. “You were sent into the forest to kill the monster! You let him live, you led him to the village!”

“Leave Dean out of this,” Castiel said, approaching Horace with caution. “I am not the monster,” he insisted. “Jimmy died when a tree fell on him, mere months after he left the town. But there _is_ still a monster at large, and that monster is my own sibling. We – that is, me and my friends behind me – we intend to stop him tonight, any way we can, _if_ we can. We’re working to protect the town, and the forest.”

Horace didn’t seem to be listening any more. He turned away and wandered closer to the fire, laughing under his breath, muttering. Castiel looked back at Dean helplessly, and Dean stood up to go to him. Nobody held him back this time.

Trevor Horace came into view as Dean reached Castiel – but Dean barely had a moment to predict what was about to happen before Trevor launched a bottle at them both. Dean found himself on the floor, hunched over Castiel to protect him before he even realised he’d moved.

Castiel gasped and pushed Dean away; he rolled to the side and they both got to their feet. Shouts came from the back of the room, but Dean was lost in a fierce rush of adrenaline as Horace wrapped his hands around Castiel’s throat.

Dean grabbed Horace’s neck from behind and attempted to drag him back, kicking at his legs to try and floor him. Dean succeeded in forcing him back, but Horace was mad-eyed, yelling and roaring, scratching at Castiel’s face. One fingernail caught his cheek and ripped a line of blood from him – but the moment that happened, Elsie had tripped Horace onto his back on the floor, and she pressed an elbow to his throat, teeth bared down at the enemy.

“You got him?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” Elsie said.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” Horace snarled, and she kneed him in the groin and watched him curl up in pain beneath her.

Dean looked over at Castiel, who was breathing hard, fingers touching his cheek and swiping away. He checked his hand and saw blood. He met Dean’s eye, and Dean wondered if Castiel had ever broken skin before. Dean went to him and cradled his cheek, reassuring him. “It’ll heal.”

“Not as fast as before,” Castiel said quietly.

Horace roared in anger and struggled again, but Elsie sneered and thrust him down to the floor, not caring she bumped Horace’s head. “Stay where I put you,” she growled.

The rest of their company surrounded Elsie and Horace, blocking out the light from the fireplace and the candles. “What do we do with him?” Charlie asked.

The front door opened and shut again, and Dean heard new footsteps. The newcomer rounded the stairs. He looked about fifty, with grey hair, friendly eyes, and a face shape not unlike Teresa’s. He was wearing a sheriff’s uniform and hat.

“Thank you, Calling Goat,” he said. A Lakota Indian accent embellished the words.

“Thank you for what?” Elsie asked, thumping Horace back to the floorboards when he lifted his head.

“For arresting this man for me,” said the sheriff. He came forward, producing handcuffs. “I was informed he would be causing trouble here.”

“Arrested? Hm!” Elsie said with a huff. “Well, you’re welcome.” With a self-satisfied smile, she let Charlie help her up.

“You were informed,” Dean echoed, letting the sheriff boost Horace to his feet and clamp him in chains while Dean stopped him from falling over. “Do you mean you dreamed it? You dreamed the future?”

The sheriff looked Dean in the eye, a smirk in his face that somehow wasn’t on his lips. “Ah. You know the powers too, don’t you, Hungering Hart?”

Dean scoffed, sending a glance in Castiel’s direction. Missouri was patching up his injured cheek, dabbing it clean with ale-dipped cloth. “Yeah,” Dean said, looking back to the sheriff. “Yeah, I know the powers. I know him pretty well, actually.”

Horace wheezed. “You are a barbarian,” he said, and spat at Dean’s feet. “Not one dime will enter your pocket! You were to be paid handsomely for returning the families to their home, but now I see this.” He nodded brutishly towards Dean’s family. “You, corrupting my boy with your faggotry. What are you, really? An Injun harlot, a man in a dress and a ni—”

Elsie’s fist collided with Horace’s face before Dean’s could, and Dean stepped back and let Elsie punch him again. The sheriff moved Horace out of the way before worse damage could be done, but Dean didn’t miss the grim smile the sheriff gave Elsie.

Horace’s face was bleeding, and Dean was about as angry as he could ever get. He had no doubt at all that everyone else in this room shared his fury; Elsie turned to the others with flames in her eyes, nostrils flared, blood on her knuckles.

“And you!” Horace continued weakly, directing his words at the sheriff. “Edward Black Running Bitch, or whatever your name is.”

Elsie started towards him again, but Edward stopped her. “Please,” Edward said, raising his eyebrows to the man he held secure, “what exactly do you have to say for yourself? I will remind you that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Horace barked a laugh, then spat blood. “Mayor Bradley only let you be sheriff because his son likes you, he’s gone soft on your kind! If you arrest me, who’s going to keep all you redskins from running back to your tribes, hm?”

“Nobody, Mr. Horace,” Edward said. “Absolutely nobody.” He gave Elsie and Teresa a smile over his shoulder, and hustled Horace towards the door.

Dean blinked, spying a scruffy little boy hiding by the stairs. He cocked his head questioningly at the kid, but the kid saw him and bolted after the sheriff and his new prisoner.

The door slammed closed, sealing in the heat, and everyone in the room gave a sigh of relief.

“We have to go,” Charlie said, lifting her hand from Elsie’s back, looking over at Missouri. “It’s almost half past three; only an hour until the sun starts to set.”

Dean scrutinised the chaos around them: there was blood on the floor, Castiel was slumped at the table, his cheek stuck with a scrap of cheesecloth, and he looked close to tears; Teresa was hunched in a corner, crying her eyes out in silence while Sam comforted her, and Elsie seemed about ready to murder.

Missouri stared back at Dean when he caught her eye, and she nodded.

“Let’s go,” she said, taking Charlie by the arm and leading her past Dean. “If we’re going to face Hell tonight, we’re damn well gonna face it together, and well-prepared.”

“Psst. Psst! Hey, kid.”

Edgar turned around in the street, searching for the source of the whisper. He saw a frantic hand waving from the alley to the side of the tavern, and he darted towards it.

“Gabriel!” Edgar cheered, running to hug the man around the waist. “You shoulda seen it, Miss Elsie smacked Mr. Horace down on the ground, and then went and socked him in the jaw! Twice! He was bleeding and it was great.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s great, kid, but did you hear what they were saying about me?”

Edgar shrugged. “I dunno.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, muscle bulking up his chin in annoyance. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Edgar shrugged again. “Dunno! Maybe some magic would help loosen my memory.”

Gabriel sighed in the long-suffering way that let Edgar know he’d won. “Fine,” Gabriel grouched, rolling his eyes as he lifted a hand hand and poked Edgar on the forehead.

“Whoo-ee!” Edgar cried, looking at his hands glistening with magic power. He tested it, pointing at the outhouse at the end of the alley. Inside, the toilet flushed with dry dirt. Edgar chuckled, wriggling his fingers excitedly.

“Now, come on, kid, I don’t have all day,” Gabriel said, folding his arms.

Edgar sighed. “They don’t know how they’re going to defeat you, but they really, reeeeally want to.”

Gabriel blinked. “Is that it?”

“There was something about you and Jesus,” Edgar said, pointing a finger at a bony brown rat and making it levitate. “The one with the gravelly voice said that you went to the Virgin Mary and told her she was gonna have a baby. And then you make the baby all magic because it was fun.” Edgar let the rat run away, and it bounded off down the alley like it was being chased. “Is that true? Did you just make Jesus for fun?”

“Why else would I do anything, huh?” Gabriel said. “Fun, fun, fun.” He tried to say it cheerfully, but Edgar noticed he wasn’t smiling, and he wasn’t looking back at him.

“Are you ever gonna tell me what your big plan is?” Edgar asked, sticking his buzzing hands into the pockets of his breeches. “You made me steal the monster hunter’s necklaces and you copied them down, but you never said why. And you got all mad at me because I let Miss Bradbury go into the forest, but I don’t know why you didn’t want her to go in, either. Was it about her mother? Because she was real sad about her when she came back. I don’t like my mother at all but I don’t think I’d want her to die.”

“No, you don’t,” Gabriel agreed, resting his hand on Edgar’s head. “Your mother’s worth more than you think. Besides, losing someone is never easy.” There was something sad in his golden eyes now, and it was the same kind of sadness Edgar had seen in Charlie’s eyes.

“So?” Edgar said, rocking back on his heels, then tapping both feet to the ground. “You gonna tell me or not?”

“No,” Gabriel said, and Edgar sighed. “It’s for your own good, kid.”

Edgar sulked. “That’s what my mother says when I ask about my father.”

Gabriel tutted, pulling Edgar in for a quick hug, then letting him go. “She’s right,” he said, stepping away and walking towards the alleyway opening. “Your father’s a no-good troublemaker, I can tell you that much.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I – I know him very well,” Gabriel said sternly. “No more questions, I’m not here to talk about this.”

Edgar followed Gabriel out into the street, scampering at his heels. “Whatcha gonna do now?” Edgar asked, tugging on Gabriel’s velvet jacket. “If you’re gonna blow stuff up, can I watch?”

“I said no more questions.”

“It wasn’t a question, it was a request.”

“The first one was a question!” Gabriel flapped a hand in Edgar’s face, giving up. “Ugh. Honestly, I put you here to spy on people and this is what I get.”

Edgar blinked, then looked down the street where Gabriel’s eyes were trained. “That’s Mr. Horace,” Edgar said, pointing at the two tiny human figures in the distance. “Mr. Black Running Coyote arrested him for being a big poop.”

“Aha,” Gabriel said thoughtfully. “What d’ya say we teach him a lesson?”

“Mr. Horace?”

“Yup.”

“But he’s going to jail, isn’t that s’posed to teach people lessons?”

“Sure. But not as much as, say...” Gabriel twirled a finger, and Edgar saw something blocky and large topple off a roof and land very close to the two figures. “A chimney.”

“What did you do?!” Edgar cried, while knowing full well what Gabriel had done. “You can’t do that!”

“Uh, hello, I just did.” Gabriel boxed his chin with his fingers, humming. “Nuh-uh, not dead yet. How should we play this, hm? Escaped oxen on a rampage? Misfire from the postmistress’ gun?”

“No!” Edgar grabbed Gabriel’s arm and shook it. “You can’t kill people, that’s wrong.”

“Kid, those rules were my siblings doing some damage control after I accidentally started a religion or six. I’m not a stickler for rules.”

“The rules say don’t steal, and I steal things!” Edgar shouted, kicking Gabriel in the shin and watching him keel over in pain. “I don’t give a hoot about rules. You just not s’posed to kill people, it’s obvious!”

“He’s just a bigoted old fart, nobody would shed a tear,” Gabriel grunted, pulling himself upright using Edgar’s shoulder as support.

“I don’t know what beggutted means but that’s not the point,” Edgar said, folding his arms and glaring at Gabriel. “Whatever you’re planning on doing is making Miss Elsie and Miss Bradbury really upset, and that’s wrong too.”

“What is this, mutiny?” Gabriel scoffed at Edgar. “You’re two-and-a-half feet tall.”

Edgar stood his ground. “If you make my teachers cry then I won’t like you any more. So there.”

Gabriel folded his arms too and faced Edgar, mirroring him. “If we’re not friends any more then you can’t have any more magic.”

Edgar hesitated, but only for a second. He quickly flicked a finger at Gabriel and a spark shot out to hit him in the nose. Gabriel’s hands flew to his face with a yelp of surprise. Edgar watched him stagger around, but he was too cross to care whether he was really in pain. Gabriel had a habit of making things sound worse than they were – which, if Edgar was honest, was something he did too.

Gabriel stopped wailing and stood up straight, giving up the pretence since Edgar wasn’t buying it. Gabriel humphed, putting his hands on his hips.

Edgar put his hands on his hips too. He was approximately half Gabriel’s height, but he didn’t feel any less powerful, not when his hands were sparkling.

“Kid,” Gabriel said, “I’m not about to let this go just because you like your teachers better than you like your own fa— Uh. Me. Better than you like me.” He cleared his throat.

Edgar raised an eyebrow, which was something he’d been learning to do for a whole month. “Oh yeah?” he challenged.

“Yeah,” Gabriel said.

Edgar stuck out his bottom lip and made his eyes shiny.

“Oh, no. Don’t give me that look—” Gabriel wavered on his feet, torn between giving Edgar a hug and storming off.

Edgar gave a little sniffle.

Gabriel’s will crumbled and he started forward, but then he paused. His face darkened, and he turned away. “Genetics,” he muttered. “I _hate_ genetics.”

He vanished in a burst of light and vibration and thunder, and Edgar stared at the spot he’d disappeared. There was a black lightning strike there, and no Gabriel.

Edgar sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets, and turned to go home and help his mother with the dinner. It wouldn’t hurt to use a little magic for that, would it?


	19. Remains

“I can’t understand why anyone would say all those things,” Teresa sniffed, jaw clenched as she punched away her tears, rough swipes across her cheeks until they were dry.

All seven of the group were inside the forest now, walking in the illusion. They couldn’t leave the illusion until Teresa stopped crying and kept her eyes open, so that was exactly what she strived to do. The forest whispered secrets, and without his power Castiel didn’t understand any more, so he walked some distance ahead to struggle through his translation in peace.

“Trevor Horace likes saying things to upset people, honey,” Missouri said, holding Teresa’s elbow to steer her around an arrow made of clover.

“But are we really so strange to other people? We can’t be the only ones. We can’t.”

“World’s full of people like us, for sure,” Dean said, walking a few steps in front with an easy swagger, which Missouri was certain covered up his desire to shuffle along with his head down. “We never hear about them. There’s gotta be hundreds of white people who hang around with coloured people as friends. And as—” he threw a look over his shoulder at Elsie and Charlie. “As partners.”

Elsie’s hand found Teresa’s, and Missouri stepped back to walk beside Charlie, so the sisters could be beside each other. Sam followed behind them, listening in total silence.

“The Lakota have a name for people like Teresa,” Elsie said, speaking to all of them but looking over at her sister with devotion in her eyes. “Wíŋkte. A feminine man. She can be a woman in our tribe, and would be revered for it. White man’s society has no such word, only words that are meant to hurt.”

Dean’s eyes revolved towards Castiel, who walked a long way ahead, anxious to get home. He couldn’t hear Dean from where he was, but Dean spoke of him anyway: “What about a man who’s not a man at all?”

“He too would be honoured,” Elsie smiled, squinting so she didn’t blink. “As would you, Dean.”

Missouri smiled, seeing Dean blush. One thing she loved about his white skin was how well his blush showed. As a child it had been telling; as an adult, it was fetching, in a way.

“I’m, uh...” Dean swallowed. “Look, I’m not a girl. I can’t be a – what was it? A wing- wíŋkte? I’m just a guy.”

“Who loves men,” Charlie called cheekily, and winked at Dean when he looked back.

Dean blushed until the colour drowned out his freckles, but he shook his head. “I’m— I mean, I— Yeah, okay, but... But I love women too. I dunno. It’s complicated.”

“It ain’t complicated, baby,” Missouri said, smirking at him. “The world just tells you it should be. None of us here are what many people would class as normal. Dean, you hunt monsters. Your love of bristly cheeks ain’t something that should matter when you’re saving people from being eaten every other day. Even if – God forbid – you were someone like Mr. Horace, it shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t be somethin’ to use against you. Me, I never married, and I don’t intend to. I raised a couple’a kids without a husband, some people would say that was devil worship all by itself.” Sam scoffed behind Missouri, which made Missouri smile. “Way I see it, Dean? Your love for two sexes is just makin’ up for whatever attraction I never felt. You’re my baby and I love you no matter who you kiss goodnight.”

Dean didn’t answer, but he walked with his shoulders down, and Missouri could sense his grateful smile through the back of his head.

Missouri guessed that Sam was now feeling an uncomfortable dissatisfaction, so she spoke without turning to see his face. “You too, Sam. You can be as law-abiding as you like, I’ll always be proud to call you my son.” She looked behind, and nodded in response to Sam’s sheepish smile.

“And you,” she added, touching Teresa’s back. Her new dress suited her better than ever, flared at the hip so her figure was an hourglass shape. “My daughter. I count every one of you as my children. No husband required, damn what my own momma told me.”

The group chuckled, and Missouri gave Charlie a wide smile when she looked over. Charlie still walked with a limp, having not yet had a moment to pry the rock out of the sole of her boot.

“Hey,” Sam said suddenly. Missouri turned, but Sam pointed ahead. “Cas is running.”

He was merely a shape in the distance now, sprinting through mottled light. An urgent whisper bristled through the tree branches overhead, and something strange happened: Castiel left the illusion forest, but not in the usual place near the pool. The forest opened up right in front of him in the tunnel, and the view shattered from dull brown shadows into exuberant green, pine trees spreading out, the dark grey sky rippling into view overhead. The illusion peeled back completely, and the air turned cold. They were in the real forest, and they were free to blink again.

Castiel ran on, arms swaying as he leapt over cairns and tree stumps, in more of a hurry than the others.

“Let’s go,” Dean said, scampering ahead until his pace turned to a run. He left the rest of them behind, even after they picked up speed. Even Sam with his long legs couldn’t keep up; Dean was driven by worry.

Dean dropped back after a few minutes, however. He’d lost sight of Castiel between the trees, and as he said between harsh breaths, he didn’t recognise this part of the forest.

“I know where we are,” Sam said, jogging by Dean’s side. “We’re right near Cas’ hut. I explored this place last night.”

“Lead the way,” Dean said, and Sam ran ahead. Missouri puffed and panted, grabbing onto Dean’s jacket and yanking him back so he could pull her along. “What’s,” she huffed, “got into Cas’ bonnet?”

“Don’t know, but it can’t be good,” Dean replied, grabbing Missouri’s hand and powering them forward. His tone seemed troubled to Missouri, darker than the sky. Sunset was nearing too soon; the clouds above were accumulating, swirling into a new storm. The sound of distant thunder cracked the air, and the smell of rain permeated the fragrance of aging pine.

“Hurry,” Elsie called to Teresa and Charlie, urging them faster, pulling them. Missouri looked back only once, but let Dean pull her ahead. She hadn’t gone so fast in years.

The smell of smoke tinged the other scents in the forest, and Missouri’s heart began to feel heavy with fear that had nothing to do with the rest of their situation. Something was terribly wrong.

Dean let her hand go as soon as they saw Castiel’s hut. Missouri had only seen it in dreams, but she’d seen it with colourful flowers and vines, with sunshine upon its thatch and tendrils of white smoke easing from the tall chimney. She had never seen it like this: half-burned on the left, licked with dying yellow flames, already eaten up by blackness until only the frame of it stood, crumbling away. They were too late to save it; Castiel’s home was ruined.

“Cas!” Dean shouted for him, bolting straight through the open door of the house. “Cas, where are you?!”

Missouri followed Dean into the remains of the building, eyes watering in reaction to the acrid smell of burned feathers, burned cloth. Heat surrounded her like it was the peak of summer. There was barely a flame left alight, as the fire had burned out quickly in the autumn dampness, but not long had passed since this place had been a roaring inferno. She was standing where there had once been a couch; under her feet there was nothing but the charred remains of cushion fabric. Carbonised animal bones littered the ground, amongst smashed bottles and clay pots.

Missouri looked up with tears in her eyes, feeling deeply for the poor soul who had lost everything. Castiel was shaking on his feet, one hand clinging to Dean. Bitter daylight shed its grey coat over the two of them, as there was no roof left. Missouri heard Castiel sob dryly, still too startled for tears.

Dean sent a helpless look in Missouri’s direction, but Missouri could only swallow hard, choked up just as bad as he was.

Sam’s figure made a silhouette in what was left of the doorway, and when Missouri looked over at him, his face was grim. “Gabriel?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Dean said, with unnerving calmness. “No, this was...” He looked across at the broken window, where glass had exploded across the garden. “This was carelessness, on my part. We set a pie to cook. And we... we got distracted. Gabriel turned up afterwards.”

He frowned and breathed out, a tear running down his cheek as he turned his body against Castiel, wrapping both arms over his shoulders. Missouri heard Dean hushing him, but no amount of hushing could ever soothe so much loss.

“M-my frog,” Castiel sniffed, reaching a trembling hand to what had once been a shelf filled with bottles, jars, all sorts of interesting things. Dean had described it in a letter he’d sent, that was the only reason Missouri knew Castiel had kept a tiny green frog living in a glass terrarium. The shelf was burnt to nothing: the frog could only have boiled alive inside its glass container. Castiel moaned in grief and buried his face against Dean’s shoulder. Dean started to cry freely against him, a hand scrunched in his hair, the other holding his back so his heart was pressed close.

The forest was silent, and all anyone heard was the sound of despair.

Then came a roll of thunder, extending for almost ten seconds; the sky’s mood was as sullen as life on the ground. The distant hush of rain followed shortly, tears falling into the trees.

Missouri covered her face with her hands and found she was weeping too, and her hands were already dirtied with charcoal: it floated thickly in the air and clung to whatever it touched.

Nobody moved for many minutes. Castiel’s sobs turned to coughs as the leftover smoke choked him, as the rain washed over his home, clearing the dust and making it colder. He eventually had to turn away from Dean to cough, bent in half at the waist as he forced air from his lungs in rough bursts.

Dean kept his hands on him, and helped him stand upright again, but Castiel collapsed. Dean lowered him halfway to the ground, looking up at Missouri for help.

Missouri touched Castiel’s cheek and his eyelids flickered in response; he was conscious. “He’s exhausted,” Missouri breathed, as the rain pitter-pattered into Castiel’s burning face and cleaned away his soot-blackened tears. “There’s not much more a soul can take, poor baby.”

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice broken with sorrow. “Cas, you gotta get up. We— We gotta stop Gabriel, remember?”

Castiel rasped for breath, a frown cutting deep between his eyebrows. “I... I can’t,” he said, rolling his head so his mournful blue eyes could meet with Dean’s while he lay across his thighs. “Dean, I can’t. I can’t.”

“You can,” said Elsie, and Dean and Castiel turned to look at her a moment before Missouri did. Elsie was standing in the doorway, hands pressed either side of the opening. Her hair was tattered out of her plait, her dress muddy to the ankles, the grey satin at her hip smudged with a charcoal handprint. “You have to, Castiel. You’re the only one of us who knows how to defeat him, you were like him once.”

“I was never like him,” Castiel said, his voice as crumble-down as his house. “I’ve never died, I don’t know how to die. I only know how to bleed.” He let his head fall back, exposing his pale throat and stretching out the hair follicles covering his jaw. His grubby hand reached to touch his own face, and he pressed fingers to his cheek where Trevor Horace had cut him. “We can make Gabriel bleed.”

“We can burn him,” Dean said, looking hastily back at Elsie. “My bracelet, it burns his kind. Load it into a gun, we might be able to shoot him.”

“He’s a _god_ ,” Sam said, opening his hands like he presented the ultimate point. “You can’t kill a god.”

Teresa nudged Elsie out of the way and stepped inside the house. “But you could talk him out of it,” she said. She stared at Castiel, who grasped Dean’s shoulder to pull himself up to sitting. “Gabriel took Castiel’s power, all he had to do was ask in the right way. Maybe Castiel could ask for it back. Ask for _all_ the magic to be returned.”

Castiel laughed, “Gabriel doesn’t listen to reason, only God Herself ever had the power to change his mind,” but his laugh quickly became a cough. Dean heaved them both to his feet, and Castiel went on coughing, and the sound got rougher, harsher. The rain allayed and turned to drizzle while thunder rolled right above them, booming, shaking the ground.

Apparently finding merit in Teresa’s suggestion, and taking strength from the idea that they might stand a chance of winning, Castiel stood tall and swallowed his cough down.

His hair was sodden, as was Dean’s, but they made a good pair: Dean was positioned firmly at Castiel’s side, each of them keeping the other strong, their heads and shoulders haloed in grey by moribund light. Their house was burned to cinders around them, but their homes now resided in the other’s heart.

“We’ll talk to Gabriel, fight him with all we have left,” Castiel agreed. “But I won’t be the one to lead.”

Missouri looked over at Dean. Dean blinked rain off his long eyelashes, gazed into Castiel’s eyes with his lips parted, then turned his attention to Missouri.

Missouri looked over at Sam, at Elsie, then Teresa, and saw they were all staring at her. She frowned. “Me?”

Sam put his hands in his pockets. “Nobody else got around the Meridian’s traps except you.”

“But Elsie—”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Elsie said. “Taking and wearing the bird skeleton’s heads, that was your idea.”

“I’m not a leader, I can’t—”

“You kept me fighting those six days, Missouri. For _months_ , too, all the time Teresa was missing. You never let me give up hope.” Elsie gave a shaky smile, spurred on by the potential success her words were commanding. “You gave me the strength and the courage to show Charlie how I felt. You’re not a hunter, or a scholar, or a magician or a teacher, you’re all of them. You _are_ a leader. You’re good at convincing people in or out of things. Nobody’s more qualified here than you.”

Dean gave a small huff, and Missouri’s head whipped around so she could stare at him accusingly. But Dean only smirked back, and said, “Someone told me yesterday, I oughta take a compliment when someone gives it. Five against one, Missouri. Six if you’re counting Charlie keepin’ watch out there.”

“Hell yeah,” came an isolated shout from Charlie.

Missouri swelled with something which was not quite pride, nor resentment, but something equally ego-encompassing. It made her headstrong and it made her decisive. If they wanted a leader, they were going to _get_ a goddamn leader. With a harrumph, Missouri raised her hands to her ears and adjusted her cloth headband, tightening it like it was a helmet. “Fine. Let’s see that nutjob of a god try and tear _my_ family apart.”

“He’s here!” Charlie’s startled shout came from the garden. “The sky, it’s— It’s—”

Missouri hurried out of the house after the others, followed by Dean and Castiel. The seven of them stood and stared in awe as the sky thundered, lightning flashing twice at once. The drizzle stopped in a moment, and what was left in mid-air then shattered across the ground in a faint hiss, and the air was left empty. A spiral of cloud descended from the chaos above, wrapped in circles of dead leaves, spinning and spinning until the tornado funnel touched down to the ground. The grey tip spread out, the wind whirling with scores of leaves ripped from the trees, debris snatched off the ground. Missouri tugged her shawl closer to her, chilled by the wind that whipped at everyone’s hair.

“He’s using my power,” Castiel said, almost shouting to be heard over the tumult in front of them. “That’s my storm, that’s my tornado.”

Missouri dearly hoped Dean was holding Castiel’s hand at present, because she knew all the ways a person could be taunted – she’d suffered through a great deal of those ways herself – and all the experiences of her past only made her appreciate more how fractured Castiel’s heart must be now. Dean was the only decent thing Castiel had left; they had better take darn good care of each other or Missouri would be having _words_.

The tornado pulsed with light; it contained an electrical charge, striking again and again until – all at once – the tornado skidded up into the sky, absorbed by the clouds. The sky spasmed; Gabriel’s arrival was not something the clouds were used to facilitating.

Gabriel stood alone on the open plain between the ruins of the house and the treeline of the forest. The ground had been cleared of leaves by the wind, and Missouri could see the imprints of large reptilian feet. One such footprint was destroyed as Gabriel walked right through it, approaching the house.

Missouri strode out to meet him, rolling up her dress sleeves as she did. She heard the hurried footsteps of everyone else behind her, trying to keep up.

Missouri knew all about Gabriel, but she’d never seen his face before, not even in a dream. He was pale and round-cheeked, walking with a bounce in his step. His golden hair matched the glinting colour in his eyes, and he wore a quirky smile, not showing his teeth.

“Well, well,” Gabriel said, coming to a stop three feet ahead of the group. “I thought you liked that house, Thunder.”

“I did,” Castiel snapped.

Gabriel’s eyes wandered to the wreckage, but Missouri clicked her fingers at his chin, drawing his attention down to her.

“I got a proposition to make,” Missouri said.

“You and what army?” Gabriel said with a crooked eyebrow. Missouri, confused, looked behind her and saw six other angry people. She turned back to Gabriel and frowned when she saw him snickering. “Made you look!” he sang.

“Now, look here,” Missouri said, poking a finger at Gabriel’s chest. “Behind me is your sibling. He’s lost everything he ever had in the universe, and your selfish actions are what caused him to fall so far. I ain’t gonna tell you to feel sorry for him, because it’s clear you ain’t the kinda person who feels bad for others in misery.”

“Wait just a second—”

“If you got no plans to return what you took, all I’m gonna ask of you is that you have a little sympathy. Don’t take any more from someone who’s got nothin’. Leave this forest be. Leave this planet be, there’s gotta be a hundred more out there that don’t have people living on it.”

Gabriel’s face had fallen, and he didn’t seem to have any joy in his eyes at all. “I didn’t burn his house down, that wasn’t me, I swear. I was going to put the flowers back after.”

Castiel scoffed. “You were going to do no such thing,” he said, razor-sharp. “The fire may not have been caused by you, but you’ve caused unspeakable terror to my friends, Gabriel. They can’t ever forget being held in those cages, or losing so many years of their lives.”

Gabriel put his hands in his pockets and gulped. He seemed to suck on his tongue for a moment, thinking. “I was going to put it back,” he said said. “I was going to put it all back.”

Teresa’s voice was quiet and bleak as she said, “You didn’t put _us_ back. We had to be rescued. And Charlie’s mother can’t be ‘put back’, she’s dead.”

Gabriel started to speak, but then turned away. His shoulders were held taut, his fists bulging in his pockets. He breathed as he paced, eyes to the ground. “Look,” he said, and stopped. He turned to face the group, his expression drawn tight. “I’m sorry.”

There was a short moment of peace, wherein Missouri made sure she’d heard that right. When she took a breath to reply, Gabriel cut her off.

“I have to,” he said. “You have to understand, this is important. I almost have enough power to bring Her back.”

“No,” Castiel said, breathily. He pushed past Missouri, walking slowly as he stepped out to meet his sibling. “Gabriel, God died when She wanted to die. It’s not the same as dying unexpectedly. We all knew it was time.”

Gabriel shook his head furiously, turning away and covering his mouth with a hand, walking a few paces, then going back. He lowered his hand, then inhaled. “I’m taking it. I’m taking the forest. There’s nothing you can do, Thunder.” Gabriel looked over at Missouri and her panic-stricken face, and he sighed. “I really am sorry. It was fun while it lasted. Game’s over now.”

Missouri bristled at the disgrace of that statement. “Is that your decision? To take what isn’t yours?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “But it _is_ mine. Rightfully, everything is mine.”

“Aw, _hell_ no. If you think you’re gonna take it, then we’re gonna fight you,” Missouri said.

“The forest will fight you,” Castiel added, warning Gabriel. Gabriel had turned away, stalking straight towards the forest. Castiel shouted after him, “The forest will fight!”

Dean went to Castiel’s side, and he slipped their hands together. “We’re gonna fight him together, all right? Us and the creepy whispering trees. He ain’t getting your forest, Cas.”

“Damn right,” said Charlie, stepping forward and taking her leather bag off her shoulder. “Everybody take a gun or a knife, or both.”

They loaded up on weapons, despite not being sure physical wounds would do any damage while Gabriel had so much power in him.

When Missouri got six determined nods, she nodded back, and led them towards the forest.

Missouri had run plenty of embroidery classes, and cooking classes, and once oversaw a cake auction, but before today she had never led anyone into battle. Regardless of how exciting it was to tell people what to do in class, there was no comparing the petite rush she got from a sedentary, domestic lifestyle to the adrenaline that drove through her veins and pounded in her head now.

Her skirt hem swept over mud and leaves, and her bootprints blazed a trail towards a forest ripe with supernatural magic. She was no stranger to the paranormal, but there was definitely something otherworldly inhabiting her headspace as she walked with deliberation between the trees, inhaling the scent of pine.

“This way,” she said with confidence, seeing a light up ahead. It rippled against the trees, glowing golden. Gabriel was a sun inside the forest.

Something cracked, splintered. The sound came from some way in front, then repeated, much closer. Sam ran out ahead of Missouri, pointing a rifle at the boughs of the trees, swinging the barrel from side to side as he searched for danger.

A bird cawed, another chirped, and when the horrible snapping sound came a third time, entire flocks of birds fluttered from their perches and flew away, screaming and jabbering. Missouri gasped at the sight; it was as if half the needles of the pine trees had lifted free, and autumn-thin twigs were all that remained.

“Something’s happening,” Castiel said, reaching out and setting his hand against Missouri’s shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Castiel looked fearful, eyes skipping from one part of the gloomy forest to another.

Teresa’s voice wobbled as she called, “I think the sun’s almost down.”

“Cas, the light’s getting brighter,” Dean said in a whisper, slinking forward to stand with Sam, pointing his deer-embellished shotgun at the light. He looked back over his shoulder, meeting Castiel’s eye with great caution. “What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. I assume he’s awakening the forest’s core,” Castiel said. “Or something similar, something to shake its power loose from the tree roots.”

Missouri eyed Castiel. “Is it dangerous?”

“For the forest, possibly.”

“Ah!” Dean cried out, raising his free hand and his gun over his head. “The ground—”

Missouri almost leapt up in fright; there were snakes under the leaves, spiders scuttling over them, critters and creatures hurrying out from the forest, fleeing from the unnatural light. Missouri hopped and dodged whatever she could see, and Dean nearly climbed a tree when he saw a coyote, but the animals didn’t pay them any attention, they just wanted to get out.

The daylight was almost gone, and the sky was still clouding thickly. Through the meager tree cover, Missouri saw lightning flashes that didn’t leave the clouds.

Thunder came like a bellow, tumbling and growling, causing a quake in the ground, shaking squirrels out of their dreys and over Missouri’s shoes, sending a bear hurtling straight out of the undergrowth and towards Castiel’s burnt-out house. Missouri shared the animals’ fear, as it was only natural to run.

The light was pulsating with a low hum, clear and golden, broken only by tree trunks. The fading daylight wouldn’t matter any more if the light continued to grow: it was nearly too bright to look at.

“Come on,” Missouri said encouragingly, shielding her eyes as she went forward. The animals parted into two streams before the humans, leaving a clear path. Missouri wondered what was happening to the worms inside the soil, were they struggling away too? She didn’t have the luxury of finding an answer, as she became distracted when the light soared higher, shooting up ten feet and staying there, hovering and glowing beautifully.

“It’s a star,” Missouri breathed in wonder. “Plucked right outta the sky.”

Lightning began to strike the orb, shooting blinding lines at angles from the clouds, from the ground. Each silent strike spat out other lines, a clear pure, white. Thunder came right after, this clap louder than the last. Horrific things must be happening above the clouds, over the planet. No sky was meant to behave like this.

“Quickly,” Castiel breathed, gripping his blade tighter and running ahead.

“Wait!” Elsie called at the same time as Sam. Castiel hopped to a semi-stop, waiting at a tree, silhouetted by the light. He looked back once, then went on without them.

“Cas,” Dean said under his breath, running after him.

“Hey!” Missouri bellowed. “This ain’t the plan! Don’t break ranks!”

“Too late,” Sam said to her, then ran after the other two. Missouri caught an apologetic glance from Elsie before she and Charlie took off too, and Teresa was the only one left to take Missouri’s hand.

“We’ll make it,” Teresa said, pulling Missouri along as they started to run. The light made Missouri’s eyes sting, and it was fearsome how it gave out no heat at all, but still she ran towards it, just about able to see the running feet of those who left them behind.


	20. The Forest Spirits

Dean reached the triangular clearing at the same time as Castiel did. But Castiel didn’t stop when Dean stopped, and he ran straight into the open space, his blade held firmly with the point facing downwards.

Gabriel stood alone in the centre of the space, face turned up towards the blinding light, his arms raised at his sides like he was embracing the light, holding it high with an invisible force.

The cannonade of thunder ricocheted over the Earth, booming in Dean’s ears, capturing his heart in an extra beat. He chased after Castiel, hearing him shout to his sibling, “Gabriel! Gabriel, please, you must stop!”

Gabriel looked over at Castiel, and pointed one finger towards Dean. Castiel stopped running and turned, fear in his eyes as he looked back at Dean.

“What?” Dean said, coming to a halt in his hesitation. Castiel’s eyes were fixed on something behind him.

Dean turned around, and he saw someone he hadn’t seen in many years. The man was dressed in a leather coat not so different to Dean’s own, had a face not so different either; stubble was thick on his strong jaw, a smile played on his lips, and his eyes gleamed with the flashing, swirling lights of Gabriel’s orb of lightning.

John Winchester, Dean’s father.

John stepped forward, reaching out for Dean. Dean tried to step back but stumbled, dropping his gun as his legs turned weak, as his throat closed up, as he felt the throb of a fistmark on his ribs, of a knee dug hard into his thigh. John was still five feet away, but his eyes were so friendly and Dean’s bruises were so real.

“Please,” Dean said, hearing a gruff whine in his throat, begging like the sixteen-year old he was, voice not yet fully broken. “Daddy, please don’t hurt me.”

John’s eyes softened, his head tilting. He looked apologetic, and gentle. His glowing fingers reached for Dean’s cheek, and Dean knelt as John touched him. Dean felt a spike of terror, of bone-deep uneasiness, like this wasn’t real, like there was something important to do, but all he was really aware of was the conscious thought that John wanted to love him again.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, looking up at his father with tears in his eyes. “I was a bad son, I’m sorry.”

John nodded forgivingly. His hand brushed Dean’s damp hair off his forehead, caressed his cheek.

Then John touched Dean’s lip, soothing the cut that bled down Dean’s chin. It was Dean’s fault John punished him, it was always Dean’s fault.

But if it was his fault, why didn’t he feel guilty? Why did he feel like he didn’t want John’s hands anywhere near him, didn’t want his face in his sight? Why did he feel his breath shortening, his eyes rolling back, his muscles seizing—

Dean spasmed across the ground, gasping for breath he couldn’t take, shaking without control, unable to see anything except flashes of golden light, the imprint of his tormentor’s face burned behind his eyelids. He heard screaming, heard someone shouting _no_ , felt someone’s head scraping back across rocky ground.

It was only when he heard the thunder cutting the sky in two and felt it shudder under his skin that he realised he was the one having a seizure, consumed by panic and fear and recollections he’d spent many long years trying to forget. John Winchester was the monster; the physical and emotional scars he inflicted on Dean were the demons.

All these realisations came and went like firebolts through Dean’s heart, but none of them helped him regain control. He was losing awareness of the world, suffocated by his own body. Even the blackness inside his own head was going dark.

A cold hand touched him, and it took him three heartbeats before he realised the cold hand was touching his own hand. Dean still had hands, he was still real.

He heard the name _Dean_ , he heard a voice like the thunder, spilling in his skin like tiny fallen stars. The voice was solid like the Earth, broad like the sky. It was the voice of Castiel.

“I need you to take a deep breath, Dean,” he heard. Who was Dean again?

Oh...

Dean shook his head. _Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe._

He felt a hand on his throat and he thought it was John’s, he stretched away from the hand and kicked the body it belonged to, but the hand found him again. Someone else held him down gently but firmly, and their hand eased his head back. Dean’s airway opened and he breathed.

Air was cold. Tasted like trees and dirt.

“That’s it, Dean,” Castiel said. “Just breathe. Breathe in.”

Dean’s eyes opened then rolled back again without sight, but he breathed. The person holding him steady let him go, and Dean rolled towards Castiel, gripping his wrist.

“Is he all right?” Sam asked, voice muffled and distant.

“He’s fine,” Castiel said, but he sounded like he was lying. “Help the others. Quickly Sam, we’re almost out of time. Whatever Gabriel’s doing won’t be—”

“Caaas,” Dean moaned, slapping a clumsy hand towards his friend. “C-C-Ca...ssss—”

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay. You had a panic attack.”

“M-my dad.”

“He’s not here, it was an illusion.”

Dean managed enough breaths that he could roll onto his front, only mildly dizzy. The pine needles scattered around him were muddy as he touched them, and a beetle crawled over his hand in its hurry to escape. Dean blinked hard, remembering the peril the forest was in.

He saw the light over the ground, the skittering gold, the pulses of lightning. He turned his head and gasped as he saw what was happening, what had changed since he’d been distracted.

There were six versions of Gabriel underneath the orb, and they stood in a circle with joined hands, all staring up at the star above. Dean saw a bullet rip through one of them, but it went slow, pulling a shimmering haze from one of Gabriel’s bodies. Dean didn’t hear the gunshot at all. Was he hallucinating?

“Wher’re the others?” Dean slurred, squinting to see as his vision faded and returned, then faded again. “Cas, you gotta... gotta save...”

Dean rolled and sprawled on his back as Castiel pushed him over, and lifted his chin when Castiel set his fingers against it. “Breathe, Dean,” he said.

Dean took a deep breath, feeling better, then feeling dizzy enough that he blacked out. He came to a second later, only to repeat the process. “Don...’t leave... mmmm...”

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” Castiel said, holding Dean’s hand tightly. “Stay with me, I’ll stay with you.”

Missouri yanked Teresa by the cloth of her dress, fighting her strength and will, trying to pull her away from the light. “You can’t win against Gabriel!” Missouri shouted, teeth bared as Teresa tried to hit her, trying to chase her sister. “I’m not letting you get hurt!”

“But Elsie—”

“Let her go!”

Missouri wrapped her thick arms around Teresa’s waist and refused to release her, dragging the girl’s feet through the dirt. The magical light was so bright now it was becoming incredibly difficult to see anything, but Missouri could make out two figures ahead, breaking the light into fractured silhouettes: Elsie and Charlie. They forged ahead, apparently battling some fierce, repelling force coming from the light, a pressure which Missouri couldn’t sense from this distance.

Sam came to help Missouri push Teresa into the shrubbery, both ignoring her screams.

“Stay here,” Sam commanded, nodding when Missouri stood in Teresa’s way. “Dean and Cas are incapacitated on the other side of the clearing, Gabriel did something to Dean – there’s no point you getting hurt too.” He turned halfway around, his cheekbones made pointed by the light.

Thunder tore across the sky again, gusts of wind rustling the leaves around Teresa’s head. Tears streaked her cheeks, her eyes gleaming bright circles as she stared after Sam.

Teresa didn’t fight stillness this time, so Missouri stood beside her, holding onto her hand. “No battle was ever won while fighting blind, child. Shield your eyes and pay attention by ear.”

Teresa took a stubborn breath, but then she let it out, and her eyes fell shut. A tear ran down her cheek and dripped from her chin.

Missouri couldn’t hear anything but whistling wind and the panicked shouting of Sam, trying to give the women directions that were obviously going ignored. They were a team, but an uncooperative one. Missouri felt dread, worried that her friends’ strong wills would lead to their untimely end tonight. She herself longed to charge like Teresa did, to run up to Gabriel and stab him with the first sharp object at hand, but logic trumped the desire for retribution, and she hung back in the shadows, acting as a protector. A _protector_ , not a coward.

“I can—” Teresa gasped. “I can hear Charlie’s voice.”

“What’s she sayin’?” Missouri opened her eyes and set her gaze on the young woman. Teresa’s tears had dried now, and the space between her eyebrows wrinkled with a frown.

“Something about her mother. Something about avenging— No!” Teresa ripped out of Missouri’s grasp and hurled herself into the clearing, her form swallowed up by the light.

Missouri didn’t waste a second before chasing her, dress hitched to her knee, eyes watering in reaction to the absolute whiteness before her. The orb seemed bigger and closer to the ground now; a humongous power originated from its centre, casting a blazing sheen over the tree litter underfoot. Missouri felt waves of gravity pushing down her bones every step she took forward, making her bend her knees and hunch her back. The weight of the whole world seemed to be on her, but still she ran after the swish of Teresa’s dress hem.

Heedless of the danger, Teresa pushed Sam away and ran past when he grabbed for her sleeve – and Missouri did the same when Sam reached for her; she had to catch Teresa.

Against all her expectations, when Missouri neared the light source, Elsie had already done what Missouri came to do: her arms banded around her sister’s body, grasping her in order to pull her away. “Let Charlie do what she needs to!” Elsie bellowed, trying to be heard over the thunder. “I can’t stop her any more than you can!”

In the split-second during which Elsie and Teresa struggled away, Missouri deliberated whether to follow them to safety, or to follow Charlie. Charlie waded through impossible tides of power, straining through the last few steps before she could reach Gabriel. Gabriel’s hands spread towards the orb, eyes alight with starfire. His hands sank into it, and the light parted around his fingers like it was spheric liquid.

Missouri stumbled, unable to stand the pressure of this place. She couldn’t be sure how long it would be before she went blind, before her bones snapped. It would be so easy to turn away and let the magic push her back. But Charlie followed Gabriel, she made it to his side, her red hair whipping at her back in the wind. She had her flick-knife in her hand, raised, ready to strike Gabriel in the neck – Gabriel certainly knew she was there, but he paid her no attention. He reached one hand into a pocket and pulled out something silver and shiny, floating it over his palm, grinning, then he thrust his arms into the light. Then he stepped into the orb, and he vanished completely.

Charlie’s knife loosened from her hand and whizzed away behind her, a bladed missile that Missouri hoped would hit nothing more than a tree trunk. Charlie’s head turned: she made it halfway and saw Missouri approaching, sweating with exertion, squinting to defend her eyes from the light.

Charlie made a decision, and Missouri saw how her expression slipped from fear to resolve. Missouri barely raised her hand before Charlie went ahead, stepping straight into the white light after Gabriel.

“No!” Missouri shouted. What did the light do? Would it hurt a human, would Charlie be okay on her own? There was only one way to find out. Missouri roared in pain as she dragged herself that last step, and forced herself forward into the light after the others.

Everything changed. It became so dark she forgot what light looked like, and then it became startlingly quiet.

It became calm. Soft and gentle. It was nice.

Black vision gave way to green, and Missouri blinked her eyes a few times as something came into focus.

Trees. It was the illusion forest. It seemed to be lit by a lantern, but there was no lantern in sight. She frowned, full of questions.

“Missouri?” came a voice. Missouri turned around and saw Charlie standing five feet behind her, anxious and equally confused.

“What happened?” Missouri asked.

Charlie didn’t get to reply, as at that very moment, a torrent of whispers carried through the tunnel, more intense than they’d ever been, pulling leaves from trees and dirt from the ground, scattering debris into Missouri’s eyes. She blinked away the dust and saw the whispers moving in a physical shape, twisting ropes and spinning helixes of white light and dark shadow.

“What are they saying?” Missouri asked, narrowing her eyes. “I can’t make out a single word.”

“Shh,” Charlie said, raising a hand, fingers poised. “Listen.”

_—mother—can’t find—time—_

Missouri’s eyes widened, understanding the whispers for the first time. Charlie looked at her excitedly, both women reaching to hold hands.

_—Trickster is—_  
_; please help us—_

“What’s that?” Missouri encouraged the forest, hearing its urgency. “Tell us, we’re listening.”

_—forest— we are the forest spirits;_  
_—the earth, the plants—animals—_  
_Trickster—captured us—_

Missouri gasped, squeezing on Charlie’s hand. “We’ll help you! Tell us how to stop Gabriel!”

_—let us show you,_  
_the mother—_

“Yes!” Charlie shouted, reaching fingers skimming through the swirling whispers, shattering light from the air and letting it course over her skin until it dissipated. “Show me my mother, please. Please, I need to get her back.”

_—not yours._  
_—the deerman’s._

Charlie’s face fell, but before Missouri could comfort her, the world around them folded in two like they were squashed in a closing book. It went dark again, and Missouri could no longer feel Charlie holding her hand. It became cold again, then warm once more.

Missouri’s feet tapped down onto floorboards, and a vision of blue commandeered her sight. A breath escaped from her mouth slowly as she recognised the form of a house’s interior: moonlight poured through a glass window, glancing off a fireplace mantle, leaving a hollow, black shadow over the empty hearth.

She heard a breath from beside her, and looked to her right: Charlie stared back, open-mouthed. “What is this place?” Charlie asked.

Missouri took another look around, shaking her head. “I feel like I’ve seen it before. Years ago. It’s like a dream.”

“It seems real,” Charlie said, taking a step forward, then another. She looked down and to the right, then bent to touch the corner of a bed. White sheets didn’t crumple at the touch; Charlie’s hand passed right through it.

“We’re ghosts,” Missouri breathed. “Are we dead? God have mercy on our souls—”

“Shh!” Charlie flapped a hand, looking eagerly towards a closed door, where an orange light crept in around the edges. “Someone’s coming.”

The door opened, and a young woman in a white night-dress walked into the room. Missouri felt shock fill her up, seeing this woman’s face after so many years. Missouri was convinced she and Charlie were dead now; they were seeing another ghost.

The woman was obviously tired. Her blonde hair curled around her shoulders, shimmering in the light from the candle she carried. She yawned and set the candleholder down on a table beside the bed, then rubbed at her eyes with her fingers.

“Excuse me,” Charlie said. No reply. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“She can’t see us,” Missouri said. “That’s Mary Winchester. Dean and Sam’s momma.”

“Isn’t she—”

“Dead. Murdered by a demon, years back. Or so the story goes. Oh, Lord, how I missed seeing her face...”

Mary swung her arms behind her back, stretching as part of a routine before bed. Charlie looked at Missouri in confusion, but Missouri knew as little about why they were witnessing this as Charlie.

Without warning, a white light appeared at the foot of the bed, between the fireplace and Mary. Mary nearly jumped out of her skin, reaching for her pillow on instinct, pulling out a silver knife.

Charlie huddled closer to Missouri, breaths coming too quick as together they saw the familiar figure who stepped out from the light.

Gabriel hovered a foot off the floor, his skin and robe glowing faintly. Behind him, the luminescence was bright enough to make Missouri’s eyes ache. She recognised the source of the light: it was a smaller version of the orb from the forest.

“Stay back!” Mary shouted, wielding the knife like a rapier in front of her. “I know about the supernatural, you can’t trick me like you’d trick anyone else. This room is warded, how did you get in?”

“I’m not here to trick you,” Gabriel replied, too solemnly. “My name is Gabriel. I am an Angel of the Lord.” He was acting nothing like he had minutes ago, he wasn’t gleeful or animate. Instead of his tailored garb, he wore a white robe with gold rope tied at the waist, and the cloth drifted in a magical breeze. He placed his hands together before him, as if in prayer, then bowed his head, and looked upon Mary’s determined face with fatherly interest. “I bring you a message from God.”

Mary’s grip on her knife eased slightly.

“Don’t you listen to him, girl,” Missouri hissed, shaking her head. “He’s full of shit and he’ll do nothing but steal from you!”

Gabriel couldn’t hear Missouri either. He smiled, carrying on, since Mary hadn’t argued. “I herald you this: you have been chosen. You are to be the bearer of a child, a child with a great destiny.”

Mary’s knife lowered almost all the way to her dress. “I’m going to get pregnant?”

“You are already pregnant,” Gabriel said, with a graceful nod.

Mary lifted the knife again. “Who’s the father?”

For the first time, Gabriel’s act slipped. He clearly didn’t know the answer to the question, but Mary didn’t seem to realise. “Your husband,” Gabriel said, with false confidence.

“I’m not married,” Mary said with a smirk. “If you were really the angel Gabriel then you’d know that.”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, okay,” Gabriel said, raising his hands in surrender. “God Almighty’s the one who sees all, I just deliver the post.” He blinked. “Wait, what year is it?”

“Eighteen sixty-four,” Mary replied, with confusion tinting her smugness. “Why?”

“Ha,” Gabriel said, pointing a finger down at Mary. “You _will_ be married.”

Mary lowered the knife again. “Wait, so... Am I, or am I not already pregnant?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Call it immaculate conception. There’s a little baby inside of you, and it’ll grow up big and strong. And – kind of effeminate. Right ol’ Mama’s boy.” Gabriel shrugged. “But he compensates for that with bull-like anger and excessive muscle. You know, I get the impression he thinks he has something to prove.”

Mary stood there, now stunned into silence. “He— I’m having a boy?”

“Well, don’t let’s jump to conclusions, now,” Gabriel muttered. “It’s probably better you don’t know too much. Oh, hey, before I forget – look, I got him a present.” From a pocket in his robe he pulled out a wad of red velvet, and unfolded it to a reveal a lump of silver. It shone in the moonlight, and the sight of it pulled a gasp of awe from Mary’s lips.

With pride in his voice, Gabriel explained, “This here is a very precious mineral. Found in only one place in the universe, a little celestial body called the Meridian.”

Missouri and Charlie exchanged a look of surprise. What was Gabriel up to now?

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Mary said, spinning her knife around a finger with total control over the blade. “I’m not all that inclined to trust glowing, floating things that appear in my bedroom. I’m not the kinda girl who’s wooed by shiny things, either.”

“You don’t need to trust me, you just need to believe me,” Gabriel said, making the lump of silver hover over the velvet, moving two fingers delicately so the lump spun like a planet on an unseen axis. “This particular shiny thing will protect your baby.”

“Yeah, like I haven’t been told that one before. I’ve met enough charlatans and monsters alike to know nothing protects me but _me_. No baby of mine will be taught any different, not while I’m around.”

“And there’s the kicker,” Gabriel sighed. “You won’t be around too much longer, I’m sorry to say. Another five-and-a-bit years, at the most.”

Mary’s breath caught in her throat, and her eyes became fixed on one point on the floor. Missouri’s hands clasped to her heart, feeling the panicked mixture of feelings that Mary must be feeling right now. Or, what she must have felt twenty-seven years ago. Missouri and Charlie couldn’t touch anything, they couldn’t interact – it made sense to assume they were here only to observe what transpired in the past.

“Here,” Gabriel said kindly, bending at the knee so he came level with Mary. He looked her in the eye, holding out the hovering silver shape. “In order to prove I know what protects you hunterfolk, I’ll make it into some very special symbols. You might recognise them...”

He began to craft something from the silver, first spinning most of it out into a long, winding wire. The wire broke into a hundred tiny sections, and each section curled to form a linking chain. The leftover silver pulled apart and split into six, and one by one, each became a symbol.

“The crucifix of Christ,” Gabriel said, swishing a finger and attaching the cross to the delicate chain with a new link. “Eye of Horus. Star of David. Unicursal hexagram. And a bunch of other wiggly, squiggly things. Very protective.”

Mary looked dumbfounded, a fine groove between her eyebrows. Missouri got lost in wonderment for a moment, seeing Mary’s young face so near, and so close to being alive again. Her mesmerisation ended when Mary glanced up to Gabriel and murmured, “You forgot one.”

“Oh, so I did,” Gabriel said. He hovered the last blob of silver closer to his face, and forged it into a five-pointed star. A circle closed around it, linking up each point. Then he attached it to the chain with a link, and the chain became a circle, the two halves of a clasp appearing on each end.

“A bracelet,” Mary said.

Charlie huffed. “Hang on, I’ve seen that before. Isn’t that... Dean’s—”

“Dean wears that exact same bracelet,” Missouri said, keeping her voice steady. “Those are the same symbols he wears around his neck, too.”

“How is any of this possible?!”

“I don’t know, I don’t have the answers,” Missouri said gently, shaking her head as she watched Mary take the bracelet, accepting the gift against her better judgement. Missouri couldn’t blame her; Mary had always believed in the protection of angels – Missouri had too, until very recently. The bracelet would still look as good as new when Dean reached the age Mary was now.

Charlie scrunched a hand into her hair, muttering to herself. “Why would Gabriel want to protect Dean? Why give his mother that bracelet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe Gabriel doesn’t want to hurt any of us,” Charlie said. She looked desperately at Missouri. “Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt my mother, either. Do you think that could be true? Or was this long game all so he could give Dean a bracelet he already has? This doesn’t make sense! What’s going on?!”

“I don’t know!”

“But you know everything!” Charlie cried, rounding on Missouri as the vision disappeared. Gabriel’s orb vanished, Mary’s bedroom faded back into black.

Missouri was left standing in the illusion forest again, watching Charlie’s agitation build. Charlie paced back and forth, stirring up dirt that the whispering wind collected as it whipped past in its flurried swirls.

“I don’t know everything,” Missouri said with her head down. “Now, all I know is that Gabriel gave Mary that bracelet. She wore the thing every day, she never told me where it came from. She would tell Dean every night, she would lean over his crib and tell him angels were watching over him. The night she died—” Missouri’s eyes welled up with tears, and she turned away, hearing her voice crack, “I came downstairs the very next day and four-year-old Dean stood there wearing his mama’s bracelet, a bundle of baby Sammy in his arms. John had dropped the two boys with me, then upped and left while he went off, supposedly lookin’ for Mary’s killer.

“I rarely saw the man, but when he took them boys away, those were the worst of times. I had no right to keep him from his children, he said, so he would take ‘em. I’d fight him hand and fist every time, draw blood if I had to, but when the world takes the white man’s side, what’s a woman like me ever meant to do?”

Stifling a cry of anguish, Missouri wiped her face of tears. “Dean would come back with bruises, he’d come back so hurt inside he wouldn’t talk for weeks. Sam never got it like Dean did – it got clearer over the years that John never loved Dean the same, and now I get why. He must’ve known. Must’ve known that boy wasn’t his.” With a sniff, Missouri pulled herself together, and her voice hardened. “I knew John was teachin’ them how to be killers, how to hunt the things that tore their family apart. But it was never the monsters that broke them. I don’t think it was a demon who killed Mary. I never thought it was, not in my heart.”

Charlie looked horrified, pallid-faced and fearful. Missouri gave her a broken-hearted smile. “At least now I can tell Dean that bastard was never meant to be his family. Family don’t end with blood, but when blood is shed, it _should_.”

“And Sam...”

“Sam is Dean’s family,” Missouri nodded. “And they’re both my sons, I wish more than anything I could’ve protected that poor baby. Hell, I wish that bracelet did what it was supposed to do. Dean says it does, but the devil and his friends know it doesn’t.

“The only reason John kept bringing those boys back to me is because it was what Mary wanted. That man is twisted tighter than a noose up there,” she tapped her head with a finger. “He’s the demon all by himself, but he loved his wife. He respects her wishes, up to a point. The longer he stays gone, the better.”

Charlie sighed shakily, running a hand down her face. “I— I can’t believe it. This world... it’s so much more messed up than I thought. Every moment of this has been devastating. For all of us.”

Whispers danced around her, incoherent. A word or two made it through, but it wasn’t much.

_—do you see—_  
_—from Gabriel—_  
_; save us—_

“I think—” Charlie said, after a moment. “Oh... Yes!” She blinked twice, then smiled. “I have an idea.” She bent down and started to unlace one of her boots.

“What are you doing?”

“Did you notice how Gabriel never touched the silver? In the Meridian there were plenty of those silver rocks in the bottom of the cages. There was nothing to do, so we’d play games, trying get the rocks to stack high before they fell over. But those were the same kind of rocks that made the bonebirds vanish.”

Charlie tugged her boot off, and set her stockinged foot down to the ground. “The bracelet burns Cas, right? My guess is Gabriel is affected by that mineral too. So—”

“The rock in your boot!” Missouri exclaimed, grinning at Charlie as she knelt down to dig the rock out with her flick-knife.

The silver lump tumbled away, and Missouri crouched to lift it between her fingers. It looked like the one Teresa had handed her to throw back in the Meridian, and it looked like the one Gabriel had turned into a bracelet.

“And we have our weapon,” Charlie said cheerfully, putting her boot back on, then taking the rock and tossing it in her hand. “Thank you, forest spirits!”

The air whispered some more, bristles of leaves and hums of shifting air.

_—going to trap us—please—save us before we—_  
_we want to have control—_  
_break Gabriel’s spell and let us take it._

“We’ll help you,” Missouri said. “But we can’t do it from here. Can you transport us to Gabriel?”

_returning to—_  
_—soon—_

_—thank you._

The world folded up again, and Missouri took a deep breath of nothing, feeling light infiltrate her eyes, so vivid it burned and made her tear up. Cold washed over her, pulses of ice-chilled air. The smell of pine and forest dampness scorched her senses – and all at once, Missouri was back where she’d been standing not too long ago, unsteady on her feet the second before she’d stepped into the orb.

Charlie stood beside her, gasping with closed eyes, her hair flapping in sharp tangles around her face. Missouri caught her wrist and held tight as they turned together, setting their eyes on Gabriel.

Gabriel looked surprised, as if he hadn’t known Missouri and Charlie had followed him. He stood still, hands not quite touching the orb. He seemed to be waiting, anticipating either Charlie or Missouri’s movement, but was still unprepared when Charlie slammed the palm of her hand into the back of Gabriel’s neck. The rock she held did not cut her, but Gabriel.

Gabriel’s expression went from surprise to pain in less than a second, and his hands faltered where they steadied the orb. He began to tremble, helplessness making him as weak as a human, then causing him to step back, as much at the mercy of the orb’s pressure as Missouri and Charlie.

The two women took each other’s hands and turned heel, fleeing from the gravity and the tremendous tension the orb created. Each step came so smoothly that Missouri felt she was flying, and once she made it out of the affected zone, she took a breath of air which filled her with weightlessness that went as deep as her soul.

Dean lay in Castiel’s arms on one side of the clearing, exactly where he had been before. Sam was not too far away, helping Elsie calm Teresa down. All their wide eyes landed upon Missouri and Charlie, and when Elsie got to her feet to run to Charlie, Missouri wondered how long they’d been gone. Five minutes? Or maybe no time at all.

Behind her, the light became overwhelming, so bright Missouri dared not attempt to turn around. She covered her eyes with her arm as she felt a great wind exploding from the light source, gushing out in waves, pulses. Every knock sent her a step forward, again and again until she tripped over her dress and fell into the leaf-cushioned ground. She cried out as the force became stronger, the waves closer together, closer and closer—

One final explosion scraped her body another few feet across the ground, but it wasn’t hot or cold, it felt like _light_. Absolutely pure, infallible light.

Everything went still, dark, and silent, and only then did Missouri realise how much undefinable noise the orb had been making – loud, even on top of the rolling thunder. Now she could hear the forest in the orb’s absence, and she listened to the whispers, the wind in the trees.

There came a crack, the dreadful splintering of wood. Missouri opened her eyes and looked around, but it was too dark to see. She heard the breaths of other people, every one of them too scared to speak. Where was Gabriel? Was Teresa okay?

Another crack, and then...

Then, there was a new light. This one was twinkling blue, a sweet colour. Almost aquamarine, fluttering. It came from between the nearest trees, moving slowly. Approaching.

Missouri got to her feet, and in the light that neared, she saw the silhouette of Elsie lifting Charlie and draping her arm over her shoulders. Both their attention was fixed on the light.

Missouri heard the sound of buzzing, flitting and chittering, like insect wings, bird chirps, whispers. The crack of a stick under someone’s foot.

A figure emerged from the woods, coming into the clearing in slow, gentle steps. It was a woman, with skin as clear as a summer sky, coloured like a tropical sea. She glowed aqua, her eyes pure white. Her facial features were that of a black woman, with full lips, wide cheekbones, flared nostrils. Leaves and braids of pinecone scales represented her hair; her clothes were not clothes at all, but frames of wood growing in spirals around her naked body. She wore no shoes, and where her feet touched the ground, her footprints sprouted tree saplings.

As captivated as Missouri was by this spirit, she couldn’t help but notice the second light which emerged a third of the way around the clearing. Missouri saw Gabriel’s silhouette watching too; he seemed shaken, and a bit confused.

The second spirit glowed creamy-white, with the same facial features as the first woman. They could have been twins, for their differences seemed superficial: the white spirit had feathers for hair, braided up past her ears with animal teeth. Her eyes also glowed white, and she blinked slowly, parting her lips to breathe out a cloud of air. She was dressed in white furs, slung symmetrically from her shoulders, coyote pelt covering her breasts and twined to a point over her navel; the pelt blended to a long skirt of leather and reptilian scales, glinting like stars, reflecting her own light. Her skirt was decorated with claws, with teeth, with small bones. Like the other spirit, every part of her clothing glowed with her colour.

Missouri heard a gasp from Dean, and as she turned to look, she saw a third light, at equidistance from the other two.

This spirit glowed orange; she had eyes so bright a white that her body was hard to see. Missouri saw enough, however: she was completely naked, her hips and belly scarred with stretch marks indicative of motherhood, her nipples wide and puckered, breasts full of milk. She looked the same age as the others, but none of them were of a definitive age.

The orange spirit lifted a hand, sweeping it gently in the direction of Castiel’s house. She turned in that direction, and when Missouri looked over at the other two, she saw they were already heading that way.

A quick scout of the clearing let her see that Elsie and Charlie were following already, clinging to each other for support. Teresa – oh, thank God, she was fine – came forward and took Missouri’s hand, pulling her to follow the spirits.

Missouri couldn’t leave yet. She looked back and saw Castiel helping Dean to stand while he watched the turquoise spirit go past. The spirit looked down at them, saw Dean was weak, and paused to offer a hand.

Dean looked at her with a mystified expression, but he lifted his hand and took the spirit’s. With her and Castiel’s help, Dean managed to stand. Missouri saw him mouth the words “Thank you,” then he slung his arm around Castiel so he could walk.

Missouri turned her eyes behind. Gabriel glanced at her, shrugged, then started walking.

Teresa tugged hard on Missouri’s hand, so Missouri gave in and walked too, making sure Gabriel didn’t leave her sight. The others went ahead, and Sam caught up with Missouri after only a moment.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Sam whispered.

The lights ahead painted the trees in glorious palettes; they moved like unflickering flames, walking in a line. Brilliant green, followed by white, followed by the luminescence of a fire.

“I don’t rightly know,” Missouri said, squeezing Teresa’s hand. “But I trust them more than Gabriel, that’s for sure.”

“Hey,” said Gabriel, turning to look back over his shoulder. “I can hear you, you know.”

“Shut up and keep walking,” Sam said, poking Gabriel’s back with the muzzle of his gun. “And behave, or you won’t have ears left to hear with.”

Gabriel walked with his hands up in surrender, and Sam didn’t lower the gun.

The journey through the forest took quite some time. There were eleven figures in total, and the only light they had to guide them came from the spirits themselves. Above the clouds, even through the clear patches that were growing where the sky relaxed, there was no moon, and the night was still too young for the brightest stars.

When the caravan exited the forest, the humans and Gabriel stopped, letting the spirits go ahead by a few more steps. They wandered closer to each other, facing the burned house. Missouri heard Castiel make a soft sound of sadness, but it was only quiet.

The spirits lit up the night somehow, their radiance was subtle yet immense. The sisters joined hands, interlocking their fingers, arms spread. From behind them, Missouri could see their hair. The hair of the turquoise flora spirit was long and flowing, leaves fashioned into curls. The hair of the white fauna spirit was braided in a straight spill, the ends tied off with leather. The hair of the orange earth spirit was short, wiry like Missouri’s, tufted over her head in beautiful and wild kinks.

The three spirits approached the house, stepping into the same tracks the humans had made as they’d entered the forest. They stopped walking halfway there, and crouched as one, never breaking their hands apart as they then pressed their palms to the ground.

From their contact with the ground came a shudder under the earth, shaking dirt loose, puffing leaves into startled jumps. The shockwave travelled towards the house – then all of a sudden, the house was lit by a green glow, a white glow, an orange glow. Vines burst from the ground and wound up the frame that still remained, twisting thick branches to replace what had burned away. Missouri heard eight gasps of wonderment, including her own. She saw Dean wrapping his arms around Castiel as they watched their house rebuilt, leaf by leaf, branch by branch.

Vines grew strong, sticks forming straight to make a roof where the old one had caved in. They glowed and glowed, and the whole house was illuminated. Sparkles began to lift from the roof, gem-like spores rising the way sparks did from an embered fire. A doorway appeared at the front of the house, a window left open. Glass and doors were the only finishing touches plants couldn’t create, but that didn’t matter, because Castiel had a home again.

Castiel was in a state of elation, shaking despite Dean’s sturdy grip. Missouri smiled at them, as happy for them as she knew Teresa was, Sam was, Charlie and Elsie were. Perhaps even Gabriel was slightly relieved.

The white spirit went ahead by herself, entering the house just as it ceased glowing, now that the embers of creation had cooled. Missouri saw the spirit’s light shining through the open window, and saw her hand reach to take something from beside the fireplace.

She came back out, carrying a large glass jar in her hands. Missouri squinted, not sure what it was.

The spirits came to stand before the humans, smiles on their lips. They shared glances, as if conspiring or telling each other jokes. They whispered without moving their mouths, but parted their lips to grin and breathe warm air.

The white fauna spirit looked directly at Castiel. She was an inch taller than him, Missouri realised. They were the tallest women she’d ever seen.

The white spirit closed her eyes, smiled, and the jar in her hands began to glow white. The turquoise spirit set her hands over the jar too, and the jar glowed with a slight green hue. Then the orange spirit took the jar’s sides, and the colour was hidden. All three of them handed Castiel his jar, and Dean stood by himself so Castiel could take it.

When the spirits moved their hands, Castiel gasped. “My frog! It’s— It’s alive, I... Oh, _thank_ you...”

Missouri laughed and spilled tears at once, knowing she’d just witnessed a miracle. The spirits smiled happily, gleefully, almost like children, pleased they could make their parent smile.

Dean nudged Charlie in the side, grinning at her and leaning closer to whisper, “How’s that for deux ex machina, eh? Best I’ve ever seen.” Charlie shushed him, but elbowed him back, beaming at him.

The spirits whispered again, eyes lowered as they turned their faces away. Whispering, whispering.

“What are they saying?” Teresa asked, tugging on Missouri’s hand.

“I don’t know, child.”

Castiel looked up from his precious jar and squinted at the spirits. “They’re deciding.”

“Deciding what?” Sam whispered, eyes darting between Castiel’s frog and the three glowing women.

“Whether...” Castiel squinted harder, trying hard to translate. “I’m... I’m not sure.”

Elsie spoke, her voice quivering, “They’re speaking Teton Sioux.” She glanced at Castiel and swallowed. “They’re deciding whether or not to stay on Earth.”

“What do you mean?” Charlie said, pulling at Elsie’s sleeve. “Where would they go if they weren’t on Earth?”

Elsie looked at the spirits, catching the eye of the orange one, who nodded permission. Elsie rallied her translation to everyone else: “They... want to go with Gabriel.”

“No!” cried Teresa and Castiel at once.

Elsie shook her head, however, looking frazzled as she explained, “Missouri and Charlie broke Gabriel’s spell to trap the spirits. Gave them their free will back. The spirits will go _willingly_ with Gabriel, if he—” Elsie turned to glare at Gabriel, who cowered at the attention, “If he promises not to harm the humans, to leave Earth alone, and let the forest live.”

Gabriel gulped, edging away from Sam’s gun. “I can do that.” He glanced at the spirits. “Hey, ladies? I accept!”

The spirits looked down at him, all wearing the same ponderous expression.

“Sorry about the whole ‘trapping you to do my bidding’ thing, by the way,” Gabriel said sheepishly. “Getting a new life perspective isn’t as easy as it looks – I’m still working out the kinks. Turned out okay in the end, though, right?”

One whisper came from the spirits’ auras, along with a flare of coloured light.

“They want to say goodbye,” Elsie said.

“No,” Castiel said, stepping forward and looking between the spirits. “You can’t go, you can’t give Trickster what he wants. If he is satisfied here, he’ll only go and tear up other planets the same way. He won’t _stop_ , don’t you see? If we can stop him now – even if we all perish at his hand, it will prevent the same fate from befalling another planet.”

“No offence, Thunder,” Gabriel said, “but I have zero desire to wipe you and your little friends out. Means to an end, that’s all. Nobody was meant to get hurt. I told you: your unending nagging made an impression. Kidnapping is better than murder.”

Castiel shot him a pitiful expression. “Unfortunately for you, kidnapping still isn’t good enough. I can’t trust you.”

The spirits each reached a hand and caressed Castiel’s cheek, the white spirit’s thumb stroking the dimple on his chin. His eyes glistened with pained tears, his lips drawing down in sadness. “Please, no,” he groaned, letting his tears fall. His whole face glowed in their light.

The spirits turned away from him, and Castiel spun around to press his face into Dean’s shoulder, crying against him. Missouri rested a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, watching the spirits walk between the group, heading for the forest.

The flora spirit’s hand touched to a tree trunk, and it bloomed with summer leaves, glowing turquoise as she smiled up at it.

The fauna spirit crouched to the ground and cupped her hands, and a grey squirrel hopped out of nowhere and sat in her palms. She blessed it with a kiss, and it glowed white, its fur streaking with shimmers of gold.

The earth spirit knelt, sinking her fingers into the leaves on the ground, scooping out a handful of soil and rocks. It glowed like lava, blazing with heat. She pressed it between her palms, and when she opened her hands, it had become an unhewn gem. Excess soil scattered away, still aglow, but she kept the orange gem.

The white spirit put the squirrel into the glowing tree, watched it scamper upwards, and then she stepped away. Everything stopped glowing but the women.

Castiel tried his best to control his broken breaths as the spirits approached him again, but even his tongue swiped over his lips couldn’t hide the expression of loss that showed on his face. He shut his eyes and let their light touch him as they whispered.

But they didn’t whisper to him.

No – they whispered to Dean. Missouri heard the words in English, in her head, pushed up on a stormy breeze from the forest’s pine trees.

_Take care of our Thunder, deerman._

“I— I will,” Dean said bravely. The spirits nodded to him, then walked towards Gabriel.

Sam finally let his handgun slump away, realising he was never going to shoot the god. The spirits made a triangle around Gabriel, and Gabriel looked between them in confusion, but then smirked. He turned his eyes towards Castiel just as the spirits joined hands around him.

“Sorry, little rainstorm,” Gabriel said gently. “Honestly. I never meant to hurt any of you.”

He breathed in, and with the inhale came a tide of air, light, sound and colour. The forest spirits’ glow was snuffed out and overtaken by a flash of light and a miniature tornado. The group was left in darkness, in emptiness, the sky a mile wide above them and the Earth completely silent.

It was hard to see anything, but Missouri heard the thump as Castiel fell to his knees, and a second thump as Dean fell with him, hushing him, holding him close as he wept.

“They’re gone,” Castiel cried. “The forest is dead.”

“No,” Dean said. “Cas, no. Listen.”

Everyone fell silent, listening.

The rush of air through the trees ruffled the leaves, made the boughs creak. Creatures shifted, heading back into the part of the forest where they lived. A bird twittered and chak-chak-chaked.

The Earth moaned, the sky breathed. Thunder gave a last great heave, settling its voice.

“It’s still alive,” Dean whispered, hope and encouragement putting stress in his words. “Cas, the forest is still alive.”

And as Castiel breathed in, and made to listen again, everyone heard it living.


	21. Across the Universe

Outer space...

It was only as big as the fuel someone had to burn.

For example: if a certain god had the power they were meant to have, they could get halfway to the stars. Halfway to anywhere. Halfway to the shores of Orion, if they so desired.

But halfway wasn’t all the way, nor did it provide a passage back.

Twice that power could provide what they needed to make a portal which _could_ get them all the way to the stars.

Four times the god’s original power could get them there and back again. But what if they’d tried that, and found out that stars were just... balls of gas? Stars weren’t God. They were improbable and impressive, but they weren’t God.

Eight times a lesser god’s power could get them to stars farther away. Sixteen times took them to places that shouldn’t exist at all, but somehow did. The depths of spatial impossibility, the caverns of unfounded beliefs.

Thirty times a god’s original power could get them so far across the universe that there wasn’t any universe left to reach. Emptiness there was so empty it didn’t even count as emptiness. It literally didn’t exist.

Thirty-one times a god’s original power could take a god apart.

Gabriel fell and shattered into nothing, and found death in the black hole.

There, in death, he found God.

God was building a new universe. Gabriel set his feet down on a planet which had not yet formed into solid mass. He walked, and he put his hands into his velvet pockets and skipped along, hoping if he made enough noise, God would hear him coming.

“And where are you going?” said God.

Gabriel turned around, looking about the volcanic plains, thick with red and peach and creamy white mist. The mixture settled by his feet, and the whiteness drifted towards a shape perhaps five feet away. When Gabriel looked closely, he saw a figure.

It was a stick, crooked at waist height. Upon the stick, a lemur perched. It had fuscous fur, blind eyes and a self-important expression, and it didn’t look too surprised to see Gabriel.

“Nowhere,” Gabriel said. His heartbeat thumped in his throat, and he tried very hard not to smile and give away his relief and glee at having found who he’d been searching for. “Where’re _you_ going?”

“East,” said God. “But my legs got tired.”

“I’ll carry you,” Gabriel said, picking up the lemur. It sagged in his hands, and Gabriel bundled it under his arm and strode off in the only direction he was sure wasn’t west. “How’s rebirth treating you?”

“So-so,” God said, giving a sigh. “It’s a bit slow. The older you get, the more you think the millennia are just slipping by.”

Gabriel hummed thoughtfully, watching the thick white smoke swirl and pool around his knees. “I know someone who’s four Earth-years old,” he said. “His name’s Edgar.”

“That’s nice.”

“He’s your grandson.”

“Oh,” said God, rather surprised. “I didn’t know you could breed.”

“We evolved,” Gabriel shrugged. “Kind of. We learned how to change.”

“You weren’t created to change. You weren’t _meant_ to change. You were each a part of the universe, you had your duty and the power you needed to _do_ your duty, you weren’t meant to want anything else.”

Gabriel smirked. “Actually, that’s what I’m here about.”

“Hm?”

“You know that thing, when you create a planet. You start it off, like you’re doing now. You sit for a while and wait for it to settle, then you move on and the rest falls into place in a few million years, give or take? And things happen that you never expected, or planned?”

“Yes?”

“When you split your power apart, and gave each of us one set of jobs, it required a whole lot of teamwork to get the universe chugging along as nicely as you used to do it. I couldn’t start an earthquake unless Crux had already put down the base for a planet. Thunder couldn’t summon storms unless Vapour had already done hir job. Basically, we formed a civilisation out of necessity. And, okay, we got a little complacent. We stopped expanding the universe for a good few centuries, but that was fine, because the only intelligent life in existence hadn’t invented telescopes yet.”

“What’s a telescope?”

“It’s a... It’s not important. It helps their eyes see things far away.” Gabriel looked at God’s blind eyes, and swallowed.

“So then what happened?” God asked.

“There was this whole palaver with Thunder wanting to start a revolution, blah, blah. It wasn’t that interesting. But something did come out of it: we realised we could make decisions. Think for ourselves. As _individuals_ , not as a group.”

“How strange,” God said.

Gabriel walked around a gaseous boulder and nodded, still wading through dense fog. It was nearly warm here, but it didn’t feel like anything. It didn’t smell like anything, either.

“I looked for you a few years ago,” Gabriel said. “I borrowed some power and went to Sol, and Sirius, and Betleguese, but you weren’t there. Then I went to Earth to recover from the trip. Thunder was there too, but he never knew I was only a few miles away. While I was there... I discovered love. It’s really great, you know. Love. Thanks for inventing it.”

“It was more of an afterthought,” God mused, shifting in Gabriel’s arm. Gabriel lifted the lemur higher, and God relaxed.

“So I have a son,” Gabriel said. “He’s not a god – he doesn’t have any powers at all. I think the reason is that he’s human. Technically he’s the son of my vessel and the woman I fell in love with. But there’s something of _me_ in there too, somehow. Genetically it’s impossible, but I can’t help seeing it.”

“Fascinating,” God said, the word accompanied by a tail-wiggle. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”

“Partly, yeah. I wanted to let you know. The other thing was...”

“What?”

Gabriel sighed. “We’d like to ask your permission for something.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” God asked.

“The gods of the Meridian.”

God turned Her furry head and peered up unseeingly at Gabriel, taken aback. “Since when did you ever need my permission to do anything?”

Gabriel’s smirk was subtle. “Consent is the next big thing, apparently,” Gabriel said, thinking fond thoughts about Thunder. Castiel, his name was Castiel now. Gabriel took a breath and glanced down at God, who still looked apprehensive. “My vessel gave permission before he died,” Gabriel explained. “Said I could do whatever I liked with his body. To be honest, I don’t think he believed I existed in the first place, let alone that I could cure his polio. This whole idea of getting permission, it... It was all something Thunder said. We banished him for it, but since then we came to realise... well, new ideas aren’t always bad ideas.”

“I don’t see what you’re saying,” God said, shutting Her eyes. “Get to the point, I haven’t got all eternity.”

“The other gods gave me their power,” Gabriel went on. “We held a meeting, and decided to send a messenger. It turned out to be me, because nobody else felt like facing you.” Gabriel left out the part where he’d challenged every one of his siblings to a game of tic-tac-toe, the chance to see God again resting on the outcome. Gabriel made sure he won; he wanted to prove he was still worth trusting. It wasn’t _completely_ dishonest, really. Gabriel just happened to know a bit more about human games than the other gods.

“So they all handed over their magic. Most took more convincing, but I got what I needed. I weaseled it out of them in the end. Castiel... Thunder. He was hardest. He didn’t like how I went about getting his magic off him.” Gabriel swallowed, still feeling guilt weighing down his heart like ballast. “I tried to tell him he’d get it back, but nobody ever seems to believe what I say.”

God harrumphed.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what happens when piggy tells tales,” Gabriel grumbled. “But I’m here now. And I need to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“We would like your permission to stop. Stop... building the universe.”

God looked so blank-faced that Gabriel ceased his forward march, and realised he’d walked all the way around the tiny planet. He put God back on the branch, and waited for a reply.

God’s tail curled around the stick. “If you stop building the universe, one day it will die. A rooted plant that stops growing is a plant consigned to withering.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel said, putting his hands in his pockets. “We’d like to be mortal. We all acquired vessels, we all found various planets to live on. We _love_ what we created, what you created. If we keep pushing onwards, we’ll never get to see what’s behind us. Even eternity is...” He shook his head. “It’s too long. My son will grow up before I know it. My wife will die.

“Castiel found the answer on his own, you know. He fell in love and he _chose_ mortality. He handed over his power under the pretence of protecting his forest from me, but... I don’t know. I feel something special in his magic. He charged himself from love, not from life.” Gabriel enunciated the name that lifted to his tongue: “ _Dean_. Castiel gave up his power so he could die alongside Dean. Even after years away from the Meridian, he still came to the same conclusion the rest of us came to. Forever is too long.”

God looked pensive. “You travelled across the entire universe, burning up stolen power, just so you could ask me to doom my children? Kill my creations?”

“Pretty much.” Gabriel took a deep breath, then sighed slowly. “The power in me will recharge,” he said with a shrug. “Eventually I’ll have enough to get back to Earth, and I can charge on love like Castiel did. No more murder. No... kidnapping. But I took so much magic from my siblings, and the recharge time is months for each of them; it might be years before I can return it all in a decent condition. Even if you turn down our request, we can enjoy those powerless years, at least.”

“Why do you think I would say no?” God asked, tilting Her head.

Gabriel blinked.

God smiled, giving a chuckle. “Did you think yours was the only universe I left running? There are billions of universes existing simultaneously. Some survived longer than others. But I die in one, and I create another. I grow tired like you do; sometimes I want to stop.”

“That’s why you left,” Gabriel muttered. “You were done with our universe.”

“It’s yours to do with what you will,” God said graciously, bowing Her head. “I do believe I told you that before I died.”

Gabriel smiled sheepishly. “One ‘yes’ doesn’t mean we’re entitled to everything from then on.”

God huffed, borderline amused. “I will give you an instant passage to Earth. And the power you took will be returned to its rightful owners; at the right time, they’ll get it back.”

Gabriel stood straight, startled. “Just like that? But what about mortality?”

“Gabriel, let me tell you something. Come here.”

Gabriel frowned, leaning close to the lemur. Its fur was warm against his cheek as God moved close to whisper, “You’re a twit.”

Gabriel’s ducked back, stunned.

God pulled an expression of reluctant disdain. “Your magic has never equated immortality. Feeding on sacrificial life gives you power. Experiencing love gives you power. Rest rejuvenates the power you wore down. All you had to do to die would be to sit alone, feeling sorry for yourselves, not eating or sleeping. How else do you think I leave when I’m done?”

“You depress yourself to death?!”

“Misery kills. It’s a long-founded truth.”

“But we don’t want to die like that. We want to die happy.”

“And so you should.” God smiled. “Go home, Gabriel. Go to your family. Be... happy.”

The smoke on the tiny gas planet started to curl up in tendrils around Gabriel’s legs, and he gasped, watching fat snakes of it constrict his thighs, then his hips. “Wait,” he cried, catching God’s blind gaze in a stare. “Will you ever come back? Will you see us again?”

“You were right the first time,” God said, as the smoke bound Gabriel’s chest, feeling cold in his heart. “I was in the dog star, Sirius. I was in Sol, I was in Betlegeuse. I am the stars, Gabriel. I am always the stars.”

The white smoke pooled inside Gabriel’s mouth, choking him, blinding him as smoke tears clouded his eyes.

The last thing he heard before he died were the words, _You are the stars, my children;_

_I am watching over you._


	22. Tracks

The darkening sky outside was hard to see, because the gas lamps in the train carriage reflected blocks of orange across the glass. However, Castiel could still make out the light of Venus. “Hesperus,” he said aloud, squinting.

“What’s that?” Dean asked, glancing up from the seat opposite.

“Hesperus is the light of an evening star,” Castiel answered. “Particularly Venus. That light there.” He pointed out the window, but the train jolted and jogged too much and his finger wouldn’t stay in place. He lowered his hand to his knee, touching the rough material of his black suit pants. “I’ll show you tomorrow evening, I’m sure the stars look the same in California.”

“The weather isn’t the same, though,” Teresa said, pulling Castiel’s astronomy book out of his lap and onto her own lap. “I heard it’s warm all the time. Even in winter. Even at _Christmas_.”

“Ooh, I can’t waiiit,” Charlie sang, a huge smile on her face. She looked at Castiel and grinned, squinching up her wrinkled eyes. “Warm weather’s so much better for old joints, Missouri swore by it.”

“Stop talking and read,” Dean huffed, jabbing a finger towards the book in Charlie’s hands. “I want to have that book in my bag before we get to the station.”

Charlie pouted, pinching together the pages she still had to read. “Hmm. Another two hours.”

“That’s _if_ you stop babbling,” Dean said, knocking Charlie’s boot with his own. “C’mon, I’m bored outta my mind. Two days is too long to spend on a goddamn train.”

“I still don’t get it,” Elsie said quietly. She was slumped down in her seat beside Charlie, her arms folded across her chest. “Why didn’t Missouri come with us? And why did she order us on this trip in the first place? She was so... cryptic about it. And not in the way she usually is.”

“She didn’t want us to know,” Teresa replied, turning a slightly burnt page of _Wonders of the Night Sky_ without looking up. “Something bad, I think. Something about broken knees.”

Charlie huffed. “‘Wounded’ was the word she used.”

“Wounded Knee,” Dean said, a frown on his face as he gazed out of the window. Castiel watched him closely, and suspected Dean’s mind was not on what he saw with his eyes, but something he was trying hard to remember. “I... I had a dream about it. Wounded Knee, it’s a place.” He turned his head and surveyed his friends in their private coach compartment. “It’s a place in South Dakota. Something bad’s going to happen there, like Teresa said.”

“She wants us out of the way,” Charlie said lightly. “Honestly, I’m not surprised. All those prophecies and supposedly coincidental foresights? She always had more magic than all of us combined, even without the forest’s influence.”

“Says you,” Teresa said with a smirk. Castiel shot her a glare, but it was too late. Teresa looked up from the astronomy book and closed it gently, then put a hand on the sleeve of Castiel’s tan overcoat. She had a devilish grin on her lips now, and everyone was looking at her with great curiosity.

“Don’t,” Castiel warned her under his breath, but Teresa was already taking a deep breath.

“Castiel’s been practicing witchcraft,” she announced, kicking her heels cheerfully against the wood below her seat. “He made a flower grow in just a minute!”

Castiel lifted his hands and shook his head, trying to dispel any negative thoughts the others were having. “It’s nothing like that, that was a complete fluke. I didn’t even—”

“Cas,” Dean hissed, leaning forward in his seat. “You got your power back?!”

“No!” Castiel shook his head, rolling his eyes back in exasperation. “No, it’s human magic! I got it from a book. This one, look—” He reached to his left, and Teresa went into his bag for him, lifting out _Practicale Wiccecræft: An Instrvctive Gvide for the Novice Magvs_. “Everything in here involves nothing more than a concentrated mind and the broad-mindedness needed to accept spirits if they come.”

Dean looked uneasy now. “You’ve been talking to ghosts?”

Castiel swallowed. “Well... yes.”

Dean ran his tongue over his lip, leaning back in his seat. He sank into deep thought for a few seconds, then he said, “Can you get them to cross over? Put them to rest?”

Castiel’s breath refused to exit his mouth, and he looked down, staring at the veins of the golden leaf on the cover of the book. “Yes,” he said. “They seem relieved to go, more often than not.”

Dean ran a hand over his lips, breathing out between his fingers. “H- How long have you been doing this?”

Castiel glanced at Teresa, who nodded encouragingly. Castiel turned his eyes to examine Dean’s knees, but didn’t look up. “Since I found the book and you taught me to read. It was one of the few that survived the fire, and once I realised what it was, I couldn’t let it go. It’s nothing like what you described, Dean. Not all witchcraft is dark magic, it’s a peaceful occupation. It’s about communing with and _appreciating_ the creation around you.”

Dean rested his hands on his knees, one finger tapping. “So you’re pagan.”

Castiel pressed his lips together, holding in his answer. But it sighed its way out of him, only moments later. “Yes. You asked me why I went out the other day, I said I was gardening. But I— I was celebrating Yuletide.”

“Without me.”

“...Yes. That what all the evergreen wreaths were for.”

The compartment became empty of conversation for a while, silent but for the clacking for the train tracks and the rhythmic chugging of the steam engine, then the whistling as the brakes slowed them; they were approaching another station.

“Cas,” Dean said quietly, as they coasted to a sharp stop. Castiel glanced up at him, and saw his friendly green eyes giving him a soft look. “Thanks for telling me.”

Castiel smiled, and then smiled again when Teresa nudged him in the side and beamed at him smugly.

A set of new passengers bundled past the windowed doors of the coach compartments, chattering between themselves, bringing a draft from outside. A number of people peered into Castiel’s compartment, but their eyes landed on the women with dark skin and they turned their noses up and walked past.

Privately, Castiel allowed himself one consolation upon seeing their prejudice: none of those people saw Teresa as anything other than a woman. She deserved to be a woman, and even though some people refused to sell her a newspaper, or would charge her double for breakfast, it was because she was a native wearing the dress of a supposedly ‘more civilised’ people, not anything else.

Teresa and Elsie had sent a letter from their tribe last month when they’d visited. Teresa had written that, on the journey there, someone had told her “We don’t serve women like you.” Teresa had clearly been ecstatic over it, and while Dean had read out the letter and declared, “That’s messed up,” Castiel had gone and baked almond tarts in celebration. Teresa had passed a test for which the odds were monumentally stacked against her, and that was definitely cause for tarts.

Charlie glared at everyone who passed their compartment by. “Huh,” she sneered. “At least we get this one to ourselves. We can talk about magic and same-sex intercourse ALL WE LIKE.” She leaned forward, shouting at the closed door.

“Shh,” Dean laughed, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into her seat. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“Hmph,” Charlie said, lifting Dean’s copy of _Leaves of Grass_ closer to her nose. “I’d like to see them try.”

“I wouldn’t,” Elsie muttered, folding her arms tighter.

The train whistle blew, and the carriage began to move again, bumping forwards. Castiel turned his head to see out of the window, watching the lamp-lit station slide away as the train moved off, pushing through its own smothering smoke.

They travelled for another hour, stopping at stations more frequently. The closer they got to San Francisco, the more people got on the train.

“I think we might be in the only uncrowded compartment in this car,” Elsie said, craning closer to the train’s corridor. “I’ve seen at least thirty people go past, not many of them are getting off again.”

“It’s Christmas,” Dean said, from the other side of Charlie. “Everyone’s going to see their family. Of course it’s crowded.”

Charlie looked up from the book again, smiling at Dean with that feline smile of hers, lips down in the middle and up at the corners. “Looking forward to seeing Sam, huh.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffed, not bothering to hold down his grin. He rocked with the train’s motion, head wobbling. “But I didn’t get him a present. It’s the twenty-third; the stores will be closed by the time we get there.”

Castiel smiled. “You could give him a hug. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

Dean chuckled, eyes lifting to Castiel’s. “Sure,” he said. He uncrossed his leg from over his knee, then slid the soles of both boots flat across the floor and locked them between Castiel’s. “Maybe I’ll give you a Christmas hug too.”

Castiel flushed, and he felt his ears burning. “M-may I...” He cleared his throat and spoke under his breath. “May I have my hug in private?”

Dean’s smirk fell, and he looked Castiel’s face up and down – then his smirk returned, softer but more amused than before. “What’s _with_ you? You never let me kiss you when someone else is around. Even if it’s just Charlie and Elsie you get nervous. And they’re _married_ , for God’s sake. Or don’t you remember going to their wedding? They put feathers in your hair and called you Castiel Thunder Heart. I dunno about you, but it seems like that should be hard to forget.”

“Shh, Dean,” Castiel whispered, frowning. “You really _will_ get us arrested.”

He noticed Elsie and Charlie sharing a giggle, but Castiel went on staring at Dean. Dean’s grin grew wider and wider until he flicked his eyes away and gazed out of the window, watching lights whizz past. “You’re just a prude, that’s all it is,” Dean murmured.

“I’m _concerned_ ,” Castiel corrected. “California won’t be like Black Hills, Dean. They won’t overlook the things the Black Hills residents overlook about us. Californians won’t think it’s acceptable if Elsie and Charlie hold hands because they’re heroes, Californians won’t know what they did for the world. Californians won’t believe in magic. They won’t let me hug you for as long as I want to hug you. We’re only there for two weeks, but unless you’re willing to pretend we’re not together, this could be very dangerous for both of us.”

Dean pressed up a dull smile on one side of his mouth, eyes tracking buildings as they passed. “Yeah. I know,” he sighed. “Four months ago I couldn’t bear to let anyone know I liked Oscar Wilde’s writing. Now look.” He sighed. “I wish we could—” He turned to look at Charlie and Elsie. “I wish we didn’t have to hide. I mean, it’s just love.”

Teresa sighed.

Castiel looked over at Teresa, and saw her looking back. Teresa smiled, then shrugged and shook her head.

“What?” Castiel asked her.

“Benjamin,” Teresa said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “He said the same thing to me, he wished we didn’t have to hide. And I said, if we told people, only one of us is going to be killed for it. And it sure wouldn’t be _him_. That’s what I said. And he got angry because I was always talking about how white he is, and how easy it is for him to do things, and he said, well I might as well paint myself white, and I thought that was horrible so I told him to fuck off. And we got on the train the next day.”

Dean’s scoff drew Teresa and Castiel’s attention as one. Dean smirked, eyes on Teresa. “You told him to fuck off?”

“Yeah,” Teresa said.

“That’s... awesome,” Dean grinned, shaking his head in proud disbelief. “Oh, god, I’m a bad influence.”

Everyone laughed, and Castiel took satisfaction from seeing Dean smile like that: shy and gratified at the same time.

The train pulled into Menlo Park station at nearly eight o’clock that evening, arriving five minutes ahead of schedule. Dean cheered and leapt off his leather seat and snatched _Leaves of Grass_ out of Charlie’s lap. “Sucks to be you, guess you’ll never read the ending.”

“It’s a book of poems, Dean, they don’t exactly follow on,” Charlie said, bringing her luggage down off the netted rack above the seats. “We’ll be seeing you again on Christmas day, I can finish up then.”

Dean hummed. He helped Elsie with her luggage, then Castiel with his, since Castiel had gotten Teresa’s luggage tangled in the netting and only now managed to set it free.

“Ahh,” Dean said. “I keep thinkin’, I miss being able to read _Dorian Grey_ on the train. If I ever find a replacement I’m buying it no matter what it costs.”

“I prefer _your_ versions,” Castiel said with a frown. “I don’t think I ever want to read the original if it’s as miserable as you say it is.”

Dean chuckled. “Thanks... I guess. But it is worth reading, I promise. My fingers are crossed for a reprint.”

They bustled and bumped, and finally the ladies had room to vacate the compartment.

“Don’t forget your frog,” Dean said, while Castiel was in the middle of retrieving it from its secure place in the corner of the compartment. Castiel gave Dean a bland stare, standing straight with the glass terrarium in his hands. “What,” Dean intoned. “I was _worried_. It can’t exactly call for Papa if it gets lost.”

Castiel smiled, leading Dean out of the compartment and into the crowded corridor.

They clattered their cases and lugged their backpacks off the train, following the crowd as everyone pooled and scattered onto the concrete platform, blinded by thick smoke, and choked by it too. Lamplight was the only thing brightening their way, but it caught plenty of smoke in its illumination as well, so it didn’t make it that much easier to see.

Breath clouded in the air, as the night was cold, but the chill was noticeably less biting than it had been in South Dakota.

Castiel knew he stared too much at the single automobile idling by the roadside; the car picked up two first-class passengers to take them onwards to their final destinations. Dean stared too. He loved cars a lot – he looked at them the same way he looked at Castiel, sometimes.

Soon the car was gone, but there were plenty more horse-drawn hansom cabs, waiting in a line for passengers. Each driver stood on the back of his cab: one sheltered cart was only big enough for two people. One of those would be perfect for Dean and Castiel.

“C’mon, you two,” Charlie said, patting Castiel on the arm. “You can take a cab, we’ll walk.”

“What time is your show?” Dean asked, helping Charlie stack cases, making them easier to pull along.

“Uhh, nine? Ells, what time was it?”

“Nine,” Elsie confirmed. She smiled widely at Dean, and declared, “We’re going to put on our party dresses and fur coats and go to the _theatre_.”

Dean chuckled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his winter coat. He sent a sidelong look Castiel’s way, and Castiel nodded.

“We’ll see you at Christmas,” Castiel said, giving his frog to Dean, then offering his open arms first to Teresa, giving her a hug, then to Charlie, then to Elsie. The contact was kept brief, in case anyone was watching. “I hope you enjoy your show.”

“You say hello to Sam for us,” Elsie said, putting a kiss on Dean’s cheek before stepping back and lifting her luggage. “And Jessica.”

Dean nodded, finally letting Charlie’s hand go. They drifted apart, Charlie’s fingers wriggling in farewell.

“Hey, hey, wait,” Dean called, digging into his bag. He pulled out _Leaves of Grass_ and handed it to Charlie. “I’m gonna see you in a couple days anyway. Savour it.”

Charlie smiled, taking the book. “You’re a devil of a sweetheart, Dean.”

Dean rolled a shoulder. “One of my many virtues.”

Without taking her eyes off Dean, Charlie cocked her head towards Castiel. “He’s still the better half, though. You’ve got work to do.”

“I... _You’ve_... got work to do,” Dean huffed pathetically, then rocked against Castiel’s side. Witty comebacks were not always among those many virtues, but Castiel silently agreed: Dean did have many. Castiel bumped him back, eyes on him so he could watch him smile.

Elsie lit a lantern with Dean’s old silver lighter, then with one last wave, she and Charlie turned to walk away.

“Wait, one more—!”

Teresa ran back and gave Castiel another hug, and Castiel chuckled, putting a kiss on the top of her head. “Go on, run along,” he said to her, smiling warmly when she broke away from him. “If I can get permission to use the kitchens at the university, we might bake something special together for Christmas dinner.”

“Ooh, really?!”

“No promises,” Castiel said firmly. “But I will try. Go on, now.”

“‘Bye, Castiel!”

He waved as Teresa bounded off, going to take her backpack from Charlie, and the three figures walked away into the dark with only their lantern to light their way.

Dean sighed. “You think it’s weird? Two of them are Lakota and they’re still as happy about Christmas as all those devout Christians.”

“ _I_ love Christmas,” Castiel said, turning towards the road and waiting as the last hansom cab pulled up. “And I know for certain it’s all based on the orbit I designed myself and things my sibling made up to pass the time. I like what humans made of the stories they were given. And I like all the gifting and the tinsel.” He held the frog as Dean lifted their luggage into the compartment of the cab before the driver could even hop off his perch to help. “It makes me feel warm inside. I think a tradition of that magnitude transcends religion, really. My frog is cold.”

Dean didn’t blink an eye before taking off his dark wool coat, helping Castiel to wrap up his frog’s glass container. He then held the cab door, and Castiel got in first, holding his frog on his lap.

Dean shut the door once he was inside, and coughed gently at the smell of cheap cigarette smoke. He pulled back the hatch in the roof and smiled up at the driver. “Hi.”

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“Stanford University,” Dean called. “The law school library, wherever that is.”


	23. Silver Lining

Castiel’s hand clung to Dean’s shirt sleeve as they walked through the library. There were books lining _every wall_. Everything shone gold, and it smelled like cedar wood, and there were cherubs on the ceiling.

Dean was impressed too, but he hid it better. He chuckled when he realised Castiel was only breathing in gasps of awe.

“Sam said take a left, then a right. And he’ll be at a table... between two bookcases... by a balcony? Oh, hey! There’s the glass doors, that’s the balcony— SAM!”

Dean shot off running, and Castiel heard his loud laugh, heedless of the multiple demands of “Shh!” coming from seemingly every angle. Castiel grinned, holding his frog steady as he walked across the patterned carpet and over to the rectangular table where Sam had laid out his books.

Dean roared and grasped his younger brother in a mighty hug, swinging him from side to side. Sam beamed, patting his back. Castiel came close enough to hear him say, “God, I’m so glad you made it in time.”

“Merry Christmas, you little dipshit,” Dean cackled, ruffling Sam’s hair roughly until he squawked and backed away.

“Jerk,” Sam huffed, batting at Dean’s arm.

Castiel put his frog down on the table, checking its water wasn’t too dirty and the holes in the cork stopper were still open so it could breathe. He looked up smiling, catching Sam’s eye right away. Sam came all the way around the table, and grasped Castiel in a giant, crushing embrace. Castiel sighed against Sam’s shoulder, shivering from excitement, not cold.

“It’s good to see you, Sam,” Castiel said, as Sam broke away and patted his shoulder. “How have you been?”

“Good!” Sam said, with bright eyes and a huge smile. “Really good. Actually, uh—”

“Sam,” called a gentle voice. Sam turned around, sweeping out a hand towards the delicate young woman who came forward unsurely.

“Guys, meet Jessica.”

Jessica looked from Dean to Castiel, then back again. “Is this...? Oh my gosh, this is Dean? And Castiel?!”

“The one and only,” Dean said breathily, stepping towards Jessica and lifting her hand to kiss it. “Holy _crap_ , lady. You’re... really pretty. Sam’s helped save the world a couple of times but there’s no _way_ he deserves you.”

“You’re Dean,” Jessica said, lowering her voice. “Swearing within the first ten words, there’s no mistaking that.”

“I, uh, ummm,” Dean twitched. “Y-yeah, I, uh. Okay.” He turned to Castiel for reassurance, looking terribly flustered.

Castiel grinned and bowed slightly to Jessica, also taking her porcelain hand to kiss it. He wondered why this wasn’t a custom for the women he’d met in Black Hills, and supposed he might try it next time he saw Elsie and Charlie and Teresa.

“Castiel,” Jessica said, giving him a nod. She looked from him to Dean, smiling. “How was your trip?”

“Long,” said Dean.

“Tiring,” said Castiel. “But it’s over, and we’re here now. This place is—” He looked up in renewed disbelief, shaking his head. “Oh, it’s magnificent.”

“You should see the fountains,” Sam chuckled. “Hey, do you want something to eat?”

“Yes, please,” Dean and Castiel said at once, with wildly different degrees of politeness.

“All right. You want something, Jess?”

“I’m fine, nothing for me,” Jessica replied, smiling at Castiel as he took his coat off.

“Back in five, then. You lot stay here,” Sam said, getting to his feet with a creaky sigh. He pulled his own coat off the back of his chair, putting it on as he warned Dean, “Be nice to Jess.”

“As if I would be anything else,” Dean scoffed, patting Sam’s shoulder as he went past. “Get me something with meat!”

Sam grinned, walking backwards to reply, “As if I’d get you anything else.”

Castiel watched Dean smile, and they each hung their winter coats over the back of a chair, like Sam’s was before. Castiel took his suit jacket off too, rolling up his shirt sleeves and undoing his waistcoat’s lowermost button, simply so he could absorb as much of the library’s ambience as possible, including the wash of yellow light on his skin and the dry prickle of blood-warm air.

Jessica sat down in her seat and began to fiddle with a pen, flicking it up and down like a see-saw over her fingers. “So,” she said, eyeing Dean, then Castiel, as they made themselves comfortable opposite her. “I got your letters, Dean. After Sam left for Black Hills to rescue you, there was nobody here to open them except me. So I... took the liberty.”

Dean sucked in a breath, eyes darting to Castiel. They both knew there were very personal things contained in those letters... Perhaps there was a chance Dean’s run-on sentences weren’t enough to enlighten Jessica as to the nature of their relationship—

“I figured it out, by the way,” Jessica went on, a smirk curling one corner of her lips. “Dean.”

Dean looked at her carefully, and Castiel squinted, observing Jessica’s pointed look over at _him_ , then back to Dean. Dean held Jessica’s eye for a long time, then broke into a soft laugh, head down. He ran a thumbnail over his forehead, asking lowly, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind what?”

“That we’re—” Dean glanced towards Castiel, and Castiel smiled, nodding. Dean seemed nervous, shutting his mouth.

Castiel’s hand slid closer, over Dean’s thigh; a moment later, Dean slid a hand below the desk to hold Castiel’s fingers for reassurance.

“We’re together,” Castiel finished. Dean inhaled in surprise, so Castiel gave his hand a squeeze and turned to him to whisper, “We would never be able to lie to her, Dean.”

Dean chuckled. “I’m not complaining,” he replied, eyes glistening as he held Castiel’s gaze. “No secrets between family, right?”

Castiel offered an awkward smile, a little embarrassed that he’d hidden his human magic from Dean; his reasoning seemed silly in hindsight. “No secrets,” he said, nodding. Then he added, “You’re putting on weight.”

Dean snorted, “Oh, like that was ever a secret.” He threaded their fingers together below the table as he added, “You keep feeding me those pastries of yours and I’ll _happily_ sew extra fabric into all my clothes.”

Jessica cleared her throat, and Castiel looked over at her. One of her fair eyebrows sat arched like a judgemental bridge, and she was smirking widely. “From your letters I actually thought it was just insufferable infatuation, but... Wow! Okay!” She leaned closer over the table, pulling her hair to spill like a waterfall over one shoulder, then lowering her voice further to say, “You barely have anything to worry about in this place. The boys here...”

She looked around hastily, then grinned and shuffled even closer, enticing Dean and Castiel into a small huddle over the table top. In a dead-quiet whisper, Jessica said, “It gets lonely for these boys, studying day and night. No girls, see. And not only am _I_ uninterested, I’m taken.”

Castiel worked out what she meant straight away, but Dean was the one to blush, then tackle each point individually. “You mean— The guys here? Wait, they...?”

In his plainest voice, Castiel explained, “They have sex with each other, Dean.”

Dean shivered. “Oh.” Completely enlivened by this knowledge, he looked straight at Castiel and breathed, “We’d fit right in.”

“Be careful about kissing, though,” Jessica warned. “And don’t be too loud doing whatever you end up doing. We Stanford students can deal with the occasional thumping through the dorm walls, but we do actually need to sleep on occasion.”

Dean had his hand over his mouth, clearly hiding a huge smile. His other hand remained curled up, nestled in Castiel’s palm, while Castiel’s thumb dragged soothingly over the tiny links of his silver bracelet.

Castiel met Jessica’s eye, and he smiled as she leaned back. “What about you and Sam?”

Jessica smiled, nodding. “We first kissed on the day he left to go after you.”

Dean nearly stood up in alarm. “You’re together?!”

“Shh, you’re in a library,” Jessica said hastily, flapping a hand in Dean’s direction. “Yes, we’re together. I suppose you might call it courting.”

“She did tell us, Dean.”

Dean huffed at Castiel. “Yeah, but I was kind of distracted by the whole we’re-not-the-only-ones thing. Oh my _God_ , why didn’t Sam tell me?!”

Jessica shrugged. “I think he was worried you might take it badly. Relationships get in the way of education, more often than not.”

Dean bristled, but eventually settled back in his chair. “I dunno,” he said. “Having a partner helps you get through, sometimes.” He shot an affectionate look in Castiel’s direction. “Always good to know someone’s got your back.”

“So you’re okay with it?”

Dean grinned at Jessica. “Seriously? You just read us the guidebook on not exposing our relationship, and you think I have any right to complain about yours? You’re good for Sam. I always thought so. It was hard not to like you, reading all the things he wrote me about you.”

Jessica beamed.

Castiel rubbed his thumb against Dean’s hand, then jostled his chair a bit closer, all the better to soak up his satisfied glow.

Sam came back not a minute later, having smuggled in a plate of sandwiches. Dean stood up to greet him, momentarily ignoring the sandwiches in favour of wrapping his brother in a heartfelt hug. “Hey. Good for you, little brother. You take care of your girl, you hear me?”

Sam laughed, easing Dean away so he could put the plate down. “Thank you. And I will,” he managed to say, frowning and smiling as he caught sight of Dean relieving the plate of three sandwiches at once.

Castiel stood to embrace Sam too, pleased when Sam squeezed him back.

They all settled back to their seats, Sam and Jessica with their backs to the windows, Dean and Castiel opposite as the two of them shared the plate. They ate rather sneakily, ducked down close to the tables so nobody else saw. Castiel’s had butter and cucumber slices seasoned with salt and pepper, which he thanked Sam for, sure that he must’ve gone out of his way to make sure there was no meat.

“Actually,” Sam said, with a widening grimace, “I just pulled out all the turkey and put it in Dean’s sandwiches.”

Castiel eyed Dean, who paused his chewing, cheeks bulging. Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, then said, quite pointedly, “Yur’un ash-holl.” Then he carried on eating.

Castiel sighed, begrudgingly trying his best not to taste the miniscule flecks of turkey in his sandwich.

“Sorry,” Sam said, as Jessica flicked him in the ear.

“It’s okay,” Castiel said with a mild smile. “You made an effort.”

Sam cleared his throat, looking down at his books.

They couldn’t talk too much, as Sam was supposed to be studying, and the library was meant for quiet reading anyway. But after twenty minutes, Dean got bored with watching the frog eat and digest mealworms, so he pulled _Practicale Wiccecræft_ out of Castiel’s bag and began to read.

“Dean,” Castiel scolded quietly. “We’re in a library. We’re in the presence of thousands upon thousands of most likely rare and antique books, and you want to read the one I’ll still have when we get home?”

“Uh, yeah?” Dean looked up. One side of his face was lit by the table’s reading lamp and the moon through the windows, the other side lit by the warm glow of the library’s many gas lamps. “All of these books are about law. Sammy can study that gingerbread stuff all he wants, but I wanna read about magic. I wanna know what you believe in, Cas. There ain’t no crime in that.”

“Suit yourself,” Castiel said with an affectionate smile, getting up from the table and going to survey the books on the nearest shelf.

He browsed for a while, then pulled out one title, holding the tome in his hands. “ _Aaaa... His-to-ry of... Rev...ol...uuuu...tion... in... Law_.”

He looked at the table where Dean and Sam and Jessica sat; they were all staring at him. “I can read,” he said, by way of explanation.

“You sure can,” Jessica said, with a smile and possibly some unnecessary loftiness in her tone, but Castiel appreciated it anyway. He put the book back on the shelf; he had no interest in anything but the words.

He picked out three more titles, and read them all aloud, putting them back one by one.

But the fourth one, he got as far as “ _The History of_ —” before Sam groaned and shut the book he was reading.

“Cas,” he said. “Um, is there any way you could, sort of, read it quieter? Or silently, that would be great.”

Castiel looked at him over the book as he lowered it to the table. “I’m not very good at that.”

“He finds it easier to _write_ silently,” Dean said, turning a page of the witchcraft guide. “With reading, nah, he’s gotta read that shit aloud. It stops bothering you after a while. Until then: deal with it, Sammy.”

“I don’t have time to deal with it,” Sam grumbled, tapping anxious fingers against his notes. “I have a test on the twenty-sixth, I need to study before then.”

“Who the hell schedules a test the day after Christmas?!” Dean spat, head pulled back like a cat who just got flicked on the nose. “Jesus, what is this place? No-Fun Central?”

Jessica giggled behind her fist, swaying against Sam’s side. Sam made a gruff noise, which morphed into a laugh.

A moment later, he looked over at Castiel, giving him an apologetic smile. “It’s okay,” he said, pushing up a smile when Castiel put the book he was holding down on the table. “Read aloud if you want.”

“I don’t want to disturb you,” Castiel said quietly, trying to hide his shame and probably failing. “I know I’m not as good as you. I don’t have any place in this library... no matter how much I’d like to study here like you do.”

He blinked when he saw Sam and Jessica staring at him, and then Dean, too. “What is it, why are you looking at me like that?”

Sam spoke first. “You want to study here?”

Castiel’s eyes flicked over to Dean’s. “Well, of course. I have for years. “ He looked back to Sam. “I want to study astrology and biology and the humanities.”

Dean swallowed and looked straight at Sam. He mouthed something Castiel couldn’t make out, and Sam mouthed something back, and Dean hissed something and frowned, and Sam slapped his hand on the table and clearly mouthed “ _Dean, come on_ ,” and then Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Then, Dean turned and gave Castiel a very soft, very loving look, an expression of thought still residing on his face.

He turned his eyes back to Sam, and sighed. He mouthed something else, and Sam chuckled and grinned in reaction.

“Well,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair and stretching, “if there’s one thing John Winchester is good for, it’s sending regular cheques. There’s enough in our account to pay for a few courses.” He smirked over at Castiel, whose heart had been set racing by his words. “You wouldn’t be able to take the tests unless you came back in late summer, you’ve missed the sign-up date. But you could sit around in lectures and take notes, if you wanted. You might pick something up.”

Breathless, Castiel said, “Would they even let us in? We don’t live here, it’s not fair to the other students who studied all their lives to get here.”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. But—”

Jessica leaned forward. “They’ll let you in next year. If you’re a man and you can pay the fees, they usually don’t give a damn. It tightens up every year, so if I were you, I wouldn’t wait before applying. If all else fails, fake a study pass and sneak into the lectures. And in the meantime... heh. Work on reading silently.”

“Wait,” Dean said, thumbing nervously at the book in front of him. “Cas, you said ‘us’. Let _us_ in.”

Castiel stared at him and held his eye when he looked up. “Aren’t you interested too?”

Dean gulped. “I’m... I don’t know if I can— I mean, I’m meant to hunt, I’m supposed to be saving people, hunting things—”

“Bullshit, Dean,” Castiel said, giving Dean a stern glare. “You hunted because your father told you you should. What have you learned this year, Dean? No, scratch that – what have you learned _today_?”

Dean gaped wordlessly, but actually started to think when Castiel gave him an encouraging nod.

“Um,” Dean said, staring at the book again. “Monsters... aren’t really monsters. They’re just creatures living on Earth, trying to get what they need. No worse or better than humans themselves. Misunderstood and punished for the way they were born. Treated unfair.”

“And?” Castiel prompted.

Dean shook his head, a blank look on his face.

Castiel gave a whispered hint, “Ghosts?”

“Oh. Ghosts can be laid to rest without violence!” Dean said triumphantly, starting to grin. “God, I’m totally out of a job, aren’t I?!”

“Deep down, you want to study as much as I do, Dean,” Castiel said. “You are clever and you _deserve_ to know it. To prove it.”

Dean gave a shaky, trembling grin, almost giggling as he bit his lower lip, eyes set on Castiel’s. “Automobiles,” he said, excitement straining his voice. “I wanna study cars.”

Castiel felt a swell of pride for both of them, and he reached closer to grasp Dean’s hand over the table.

Something stirred the air behind Castiel, and he was distracted, looking over his shoulder. Ordinarily, nothing would have drawn him away from Dean’s touch or the look in his eyes at a moment like this, but tonight something did.

Castiel got up from his seat and followed the movement he’d felt. He put a hand against the bookshelf corner and peered past it, looking ahead to the leather couches and the reading lamps illuminating other students’ faces. Passing them by were three tall women in coloured floor-length dresses, dark brown skin visible at their necks, and their hands.

One woman wore a turquoise dress; she had straight hair with a curl at the end, decorated by a single braid and a leaf. The second had fully braided hair, and wore plush white fur over her shoulders. The third woman had short, tufty hair, an orange headband holding it tame. She looked back over her shoulder and gave Castiel a smile. Her eyes gleamed like beautiful orange gems.

Nobody seemed to notice the women, and they got halfway down the wide aisle before they vanished into a beam of moonlight.

Dean’s warmth appeared at Castiel’s back. “What, what is it?” he asked.

Castiel’s eyes were full of tears as he turned around. He was smiling madly, vibrating with relief and excitement and utter astonishment. Dean looked baffled, and a little scared, but he held Castiel’s biceps tightly as Castiel babbled something which was incoherent to even himself.

The glass doors to the balcony blew open, and if they hadn’t been caught by the metal hooks on their frame, they would have shattered on the stone barriers on either side. The view ahead was striking; the moonlight carved bumps into the thin covering of cloud, shining through the thinnest parts. In the silver gleam, the gardens ahead were lit up, pale gravel and green grass kept within neat borders. Plants bloomed from stone holders, set at intervals down the garden.

Castiel was rendered breathless, not by the sight, but by the sound. The sound of thunder.

The sky was calling him.

He drifted forwards, pulling out of Dean’s arms and going towards the warm wind. The breeze got colder as he stepped outside, but he walked onto the balcony like he was floating, lost in a dream. He looked up at the sky, thinking of the forest spirits. He felt a speck of rain hit his cheek, and he smiled.

Oh, how he smiled.

He smiled, and tears fell from his eyes, and the sky cried with him, tears of unmitigated joy. This was where he was meant to be. Everything was as it should be.

Dean stood with him at the far end of the balcony, staring out at the falling rain.

“So this is it, huh?” Dean muttered, diamonds on his eyelashes as he looked across at Castiel. “The magic just won’t leave you alone. This is yours, isn’t it? This is your rain!”

“Yes! Yes, it’s my rain!” Castiel cried, spinning in a circle and laughing as the water hit him. It got so cold he couldn’t bear it, but he pressed into Dean’s side and hugged him, rested his face against Dean’s shoulder. He felt Sam’s hand in his hair, and he laughed.

He laughed and he laughed.

“It’s come back to me,” he said, eyes ablaze as he took Dean’s hand and stood straight. Dean and Sam stared back at him like they couldn’t understand how that was possible – Castiel didn’t know any more than they did, but he did know his magic had come back fully charged. “Gabriel must’ve—”

“Died?”

Castiel shook his head. “Realised what he did and made amends. The forest spirits are alive, they’re somewhere out there. They came to deliver my power.”

Dean’s eyes lit up with untold relief, and he pushed himself into Castiel’s arms, cradling his head and putting a kiss on his cold-numbed ear. “Ohh, God, Cas. I’m so happy for you.” He kissed him again, then again, until Dean fell back, a grin pushing up his cold-ruddied cheeks.

Castiel glanced behind them and saw there were students gathering at the wide opening to the balcony, all men except for Jessica. Castiel saw their excited pointing and shouting, and was confused for a moment, until Dean cried, “Cas! Look!”

Castiel turned where Dean pointed, up at the sky—

White crystals came down in gentle swirls, bringing with them the crisp smell of snow, heart-stopping cold, and an overwhelming sense of peace.

“It’s snowing,” Sam breathed, rather redundantly. “Holy crap, it’s _snowing_.”

Castiel’s teeth began to chatter, the cold and the shock and the elation all getting to him at once. Dean stood behind him and wrapped his arms around him to keep him warm; they swayed together, Dean’s cheek on Castiel’s shoulder.

Their white shirts became soaked with freezing-cold water, and they were shivering, but Castiel didn’t think this moment could be made any more perfect. Yes, there was still that ache for their empty cottage back in South Dakota, and a passionate longing for travel, but Castiel was convinced that once they were sick of learning from books, they would go and have all sorts of adventures, learning in a different way.

Castiel heard Dean whisper against his neck, “Are you immortal again now?”

Castiel smiled, gripping both of Dean’s hands where they held tight to his heart. “No,” he replied, puffing out a big cloud of white. “My life is as short as yours, and I’m going to make the most of it.”

“I’m glad,” Dean said, and squeezed him tight. “But I’m warning you now, Cas: no giving me a tail if I misbehave. Promise me.”

“I promise. But what about giving you a tail as a reward?”

Dean laughed, nosing Castiel’s neck. “For fun? Sure. I might be able to deal with that.”

Castiel beamed, resting his cheek on Dean’s head. Then, he raised his hand to the sky, and without care to who was watching, what they would think of him, or what they would believe about the world come tomorrow, he and the snowflakes began to glow.

{ **_the end_ **}****  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [**art masterpost**](http://steviecass.livejournal.com/2631.html) by [steviecass](http://steviecass.tumblr.com/)  
> [ **acknowledgements**](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/26734.html) (scroll down)  
> [my tumblr](http://almaasi.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Soundtrack coming soon! (Check back in a few days~)


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